spoke, she moved on aimlessly, leaning on Dorine’s arm. . . . She felt contented and yet strange, in those rooms, in which she saw herself as she was on that last day, the day of her marriage with De Staffelaer; she could see herself at the wedding-breakfast and afterwards, when the time came to say good-bye. . . . Since then, her own people had become strangers to her.
Like a little child, she went in search of her mother, who was talking to Aunt Ruyvenaer, sat down in a chair by her and took her hand. . . .
“Well, Constance, it is nice, to have you back again!” said Auntie, energetically, laying a firm, Indian stress on her words. “So nice for Mamma too, kassian! Where are you staying now?”
“At the Hôtel des Indes, for the present, Auntie. . . . As soon as Van der Welcke arrives from Brussels, we shall look out for a house.”
“I am so curious to meet your husband.”
Constance gave a vague laugh. . . .
“Do you often go to India, Auntie?”
“Yes, child, almost every year: Uncle likes going . . . because of the business, Daranginongan, the sugar. And then home again, on our return-tickets. Oh, it’s so easy, with the French mail. . . . No trouble at all. . . . And Alima, my maid . . . she knows everything . . . knows Paris, the custom-office, does everything, helps Uncle with the tickets. . . . You should see her: dressed just like a lady, stays and all, splendid; you’d laugh till you cried! . . . How long did you live in Brussels?”
