“It’s not nonsense, Constance. Do you want to make me regret that we yielded to Mamma’s wish to have you here again, near her, among us all?”
“No, Bertha, but I can no longer remain—for the sake of people, for the sake of the family—in the same obscure corner in which I remained for years in Brussels, where I was disowned by all of you as a disgrace. I can’t do it, Bertha, I can’t do it. I could do it, as far as I am concerned; but I can’t, because of my son.”
“He is a child still.”
“He is growing older every day. I see, Bertha, that I ought either to have stayed away from you all, without indulging my modest yearnings and simple wishes, or else to have rehabilitated myself at once, in the eyes of all the Hague.”
“Constance . . .”
“But it’s not too late. It’s not too late to repair my mistake. I can still take steps towards my rehabilitation. And I ask, I demand that rehabilitation, of you, Bertha, in particular.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, Bertha, of you in particular. Just because you are the sister whose husband not only occupies a high position, but also possesses more connections than any of us in the set that used to be our father’s. Just for that reason, Bertha, I demand my rehabilitation of you. If I’m not to be allowed to live quietly, in a corner, at the Hague, surrounded by a little family-affection; if those simple wishes are to
