"No. What's the matter with Addie? He's not looking well."
"Nothing. He's staying on to talk to you."
"Is there anything I can do for him?"
"Perhaps there is, Ernst. Have a talk with him."
"You people are a heavy burden on me. . . ."
"I must go now, dear."
She kissed him good-bye.
"Be careful," he whispered.
Suddenly, he swung open the door:
"There!" he cried, triumphantly. "Did you see? The scoundrel slips away so quickly. Just like a ghost. No, more like a devil."
She gave a last glance at Addie; her eyelids flickered at him and she went away. Ernst closed the door very carefully.
"He simply can't go on living by himself," thought Constance, as she hurried to the Van Saetzemas'.
It was a very small house in a side-street at Duinoord; and she found Van Saetzema sick and ailing in a stuffy little sitting-room; she saw Caroline, too, bitter-eyed and bitter-mouthed, generally embittered by her dull existence as spinster of nearly thirty, with no prospect of marrying. Meanwhile, Adolphine kept her sister waiting. She had obviously run upstairs to put on a clean tea-gown. At the back of the little house, under the grey sky, which sent down a false morning light through the heavy rain-clouds, the atmosphere seemed full of bitterness . . . bitterness because they were ill and poor and disappointed; and all this dreariness was scantily and narrowly housed between the father, mother and daughter, in the little room where they kept getting in one another's way. A melancholy born of pity welled up in Constance;
