some attempt to adopt an attitude; and their excitement cooled down. But it struck them all that Van Naghel looked exceedingly tired, Bertha pale and Marianne as though she had been crying; her eyes were specks under her swollen lids. They exchanged vague, almost doleful good-evenings, giving a hand here, a kiss there. . . .
After all the agitation, a gloom descended upon the family. The voices sank into a whisper. And, through the whispering, suddenly, the voices of the two old aunts sounded piercingly, as they spoke to the Van Naghels:
“Yes, yes, I remember you, I know you. Good-evening, Van Naghel.”
“Good-evening, Aunt.”
“Good-evening, Toetie. Yes, yes, I know you: you’re Toetie, Van Naghel’s wife. And who’s that?”
“That’s my girl, Auntie: Marianne. And I’m Bertha. . . .”
“Oh, yes, that’s Emilietje!” Auntie Tine screamed in Auntie Rine’s ear, in a moment of sudden and not yet perfect lucidity. “That’s Toetie’s daughter Emilie-etje!”
“No, Auntie, Emilie is married!”
“What d’you say? Is she dead?”
“No,” screamed Auntie Tine, “Floortje, Floortje is married! This is Emilie-etje!”
“Oh, I see! Good-evening, Emilietje.”
A smile lit up gloomy features here and there. The aunts never knew any one properly, were always
