“We were eight years in Brussels.”
“Small, Brussels, I think, compared with Paris. What made you go to Brussels? Tell me.”
“Well, Auntie,” laughed Constance, “we had to live somewhere! We used to travel a great deal besides. We were often on the Riviera. But suddenly I got terribly homesick for Holland, for Mamma, for all of you. Then I talked about it to Van der Welcke, about moving to the Hague; and he too was longing to get back to his country. And there was Adriaan, my boy: he’s thirteen now; and we wanted him to have a Dutch education. . . .”
“Does your son talk Dutch?”
“Of course he does, Auntie.”
“What is he going to be?”
Constance hesitated:
“He’ll probably enter the diplomatic service,” she said, in a low voice, thinking involuntarily of her years in Rome, of De Staffelaer, of all that had separated her from her people.
“Really?” asked Mamma, greatly interested.
“Yes, Van der Welcke would like it. . . .”
She was still holding her mother’s hand; and Mrs. van Lowe sat very erect, looking pleased to have Constance back.
“Marie,” said Auntie. “Do you know what I think so funny of you? You’re mad on your children, mad on them. But, when you see your daughter after all these years, you let her sleep at the Hôtel des Indes! Why is that? Tell me.”
