Forgive and forget, soedah! But I tell you, people always love to korek about tempo doeloe.[1] It makes me sick when I think what people are!”
“Dorine, have you that article?”
“Do you think I carry it about with me?” said Dorine, irritably.
“Why are you angry with me, Dorine?”
“I’m not angry; but, when you give occasion . . .”
“I? . . . Give occasion? . . . Fifteen years ago? . . .”
“No, on Tuesday last. What an idea of yours, to go to Bertha’s!”
“I intend to do more than that, Dorine. And I can’t help it if I don’t share your awe for Bertha’s days. . . .”
“At which you may meet all sorts of people . . .”
“Dorine, one has so many unpleasant meetings in this world,” said Constance, haughtily. “You, you don’t know the world.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“Then don’t condemn me. You don’t know why I am acting as I am.”
“If you only kept to yourself . . .”
“I wanted to keep to myself.”
“You give people occasion . . .”
“Yes, now: I give them occasion now . . .”
“Oh, children,” said Auntie, “don’t quarrel. . . . There’s soesah[2] enough, with that hor-r-rid article!”
Gerrit arrived:
“I thought I’d just look in, Mamma . . .”
