later, much later, at all the disappointment, even that of seeking and not finding and not achieving. . . .
It was very noisy because of the children: the three little Vreeswijks after lunch playing with Jetje and Constant; and, as the girls were staying with the children, Constance, with her arm round Marianne's waist, went upstairs to her own room:
"Let's sit here quietly for a bit," she said.
Marianne smiled: "You've always got your hands full, Auntie."
"I don't know why, dear. . . . We live so quietly here, at Driebergen . . . and yet . . . yet my hands are always full. I do sometimes crave to be quite alone. . . . But the craving never lasts long . . . and it seems impossible. . . . However, it's all right as it is. . . ."
"What awful weather, Auntie! . . . I remember how often it used to rain like this when I came to see you in the Kerkhoflaan. . . . How long ago it is, years and years ago! . . . Here, among all your old knicknacks it looks to me suddenly and strangely as though everything had remained the same . . . and yet changed. Auntie . . . Auntie . . ."
Obeying a sudden impulse, she dropped on her knees beside Constance and seized her hand:
"Do you remember, do you remember? . . . I used to come and see you in this sort of rain and stay on . . . and I could not bear that you should be unhappy with Uncle. . . . And, you know, I talked about it . . . I said tactless things . . . I asked you to try and be happy with Uncle . . . Do you remember, do you remember? . . . And now, Auntie, it appears to me as if a great deal has been changed, though much has remained the same, and as if things had become much better . . . be-
