at which you are always likely to meet people you wouldn’t care for: well, if you take my advice . . .”
“Is that all, Van Naghel, that you have to say, when I lay bare my soul to you, here, between brothers and sisters, and, without any diplomatic varnish, ask you, as far as you can, to rehabilitate me in your house?”
“But, Constance, what a word! What a word to use! . . .”
“It’s the right word, Van Naghel; there is no other word: I want my rehabilitation.”
“Constance, really, I am prepared to help you in all you ask: and whatever is in my power . . .”
But Van der Welcke flared up:
“Van Naghel, please keep those non-committal expressions for the Chamber. My wife asked you and I now ask you: will you receive us this winter in a way that will make your set, which was once ours, take us up, even though we rub shoulders with De Staffelaer’s nephews and nieces and even though people talk about what happened fifteen years ago?”
“Van der Welcke,” said Van Naghel, nettled, “the expressions I choose to employ in the Chamber are my own affair.”
“Answer my question!”
“Henri!” Constance implored.
“Answer my question!” insisted Van der Welcke, full of suppressed rage, feeling ready to smash everything to pieces.
“Well then, no!” said Van Naghel, haughtily.
