noticed the draught, no longer heard the wind. They hardly ate anything now, hurriedly finishing their dinner.
"Come into the drawing-room," said Constance, "it's warmer there. I don't know why the dining-room should be so chilly."
"We'll set the stove going to-morrow," said Van der Welcke.
His face had brightened up out of recognition.
"Let's see how you're looking, old chap."
He, the father, was so much excited that the tears came to Addie's eyes. The others left the two of them together in the drawing-room with Van der Welcke while in the dimly-lighted dining-room the old woman seemed to be asleep.
"How are you, my boy?"
"Very well indeed, Dad."
"And now . . . you're staying here?"
"Yes, I'm staying . . . with all of you."
"Yes, this is your home. . . . And your wife?"
"We shall see. That will settle itself."
"So . . . there's nothing certain yet . . . about Mathilde?"
"No, nothing certain. . . . I write to her once a month; she writes rather oftener . . . about the children. She's very good to them."
"So . . . no talk of a divorce?"
"No, no talk of that. . . . Perhaps, later, all will come right between us. Perhaps, on the other hand, she will feel that she would sooner be free . . . in spite of the children."
They both thought of Erzeele.
"So you don't know anything yet?"
"No, not yet. It will settle itself. It must settle itself some day."
"You see, my boy, I'm different. In your place, I should have fought a duel with Erzeele. I should
