And they drove to the Hôtel des Indes. The porter left them in the hall for a moment, then showed them up.
“How nice of you to come!” said Constance. She was genuinely pleased. “And in this awful weather! But, as you see, you have to come up to my bedroom. I have no sitting-room; and the drawing-room is such a bore. Really, it’s very nice of you to come,” she repeated, “and in this rain, too! Adriaan!”
“Yes, Mamma!”
“Here are Uncle Karel and Aunt Cateau.”
She beckoned to the boy to come from his room. She was smiling with happiness, glad to see the faces of her brother and her sister-in-law, longing for the sympathy of family-affection, thought she had not known Cateau in the old days.
“Ah, is that your boy, Con-stance? . . . Well, he is a big boy!”
“How d’ye do, Aunt? How d’ye do, Uncle?” said the lad, a little coldly and haughtily.
“Is he like his father?” asked Karel.
“Yes,” said Constance, grudgingly.
Karel and Cateau looked at Adriaan. The boy stood bolt upright before them, a strikingly handsome lad: he certainly resembled his father; he had Van der Welcke’s regular features, his round head, his short, soft, curly hair. At thirteen, an age when other boys are overgrown, gawky and clumsy in their ways, he was not tall, but well-proportioned and rather broadly built, with a pair of square shoulders
