Emilie dismissed the fly. Indoors, she removed her hat, took off the tulle boa, lost something of her exaggerated smartness. . . .
"We have an hour left before lunch, Emilie," said Constance. "Come up to my bedroom. I want to talk to you."
They went upstairs; Constance shut the door:
"Tell me, Emilie . . . how are you living, in Paris? . . ."
"With Henri, Auntie."
"With Henri . . . but why, Emilie? Why keep your brother from his work? . . ."
"I don't, Auntie. He doesn't want to do that sort of work. He wants to be free; and so do I."
"Free . . . in what way?"
"We don't feel ourselves suited . . . to Dutch life. . . ."
"But why not?"
"I don't know: an exotic drop of blood in our veins, perhaps. Try to understand, Auntie . . . you have lived abroad a long time yourself. Holland is so narrow . . . and I . . . I have suffered too much in Holland."
"Dear, I suffered . . . away from my country; and I longed for my country when I had not seen it for years."
"You will understand all the same. Auntie, do understand. I can't possibly live in Holland again; nor Henri either."
