was not because . . . because you were not kind to me. You were very kind . . . you tried to be . . . though I do not believe that Papa likes me, that Emilie, Aunt Adeline or any of the others like me. . . . I bear them no malice: I don't like them either."
Constance was silent.
"I am so different from the boy and girl cousins . . . and Papa was always jealous."
"My dear!"
"And you too; but you fought against it."
"Mathilde, I always wished you to feel at home with us; I always hoped that some part of you would blend with us."
"Exactly; and that was impossible: I was too different from all of you; and at Driebergen . . . in the end. . . . I should have become as full of nerves . . . as Mary."
There was a tint of hatred in her voice.
"No, dear," said Constance, harking back, "you were not happy with us. But because I hope that you are happy now . . ."
She had risen nervously; the nurse had entered and was taking the children with her: they were to have one more turn in the street before lunch.
"Tell me, Mathilde, are you really happy? Do you really and truly love Addie again?"
"I have always loved him. What do you mean?"
"Then it's all right, then it's all right, dear."
"Why are you so sad? There are tears in your eyes."
"The Hague always makes me sad. The cabman took me for a little drive and I passed all the houses of the old days . . . when we all used to live here."
"Did you feel a longing to come back to the Hague?"
