She looked around her. While she stood in front of Van Naghel, Bertha had sunk into a chair, trembling with nervous excitement, while Van der Welcke and Paul, as though in expectation, listened breathlessly to Constance’ words, which came in broken jerks from her throat. Then, at last, slowly, as though he were speaking in the Chamber, Van Naghel’s voice made itself heard, softly, with its polite, rather affected and pompous intonation:
“Constance, I shall certainly do my best to satisfy all your wishes, all your requests. I will help you, as far as I can, if you really think that I can be of use to you. Certainly I owe a great deal to Papa; and, if, later, I can possibly do anything for your son, I assure you—and you, too, Van der Welcke—I shall not fail to do so. I give you my hand on it, my hand. I shall certainly, gladly, with all my heart, help Addie in the career which he selects: you may be sure of that. But, Constance, what you ask me so frankly, to . . . to invite you and Van der Welcke to one of our dinners, at which you would meet people who really, really would have no attraction for you: oh, you wouldn’t care for it, Constance, I assure you, you really wouldn’t care for it! And, if you want my honest opinion, honestly, as between brother and sister, I should say to you, candidly, Constance, don’t insist on coming to our official dinners: they’re no amusement; they’re an awful bore, sometimes: boring, aren’t they, Bertha? Very tedious, very tedious, sometimes. And the receptions,
