"I've come to see how you are getting on, Constance . . . you and . . . and Mamma. . . ."
Adolphine's voice wavered, jerkily, beseechingly, uncertain of itself; and it was so strange for Constance to see Adolphine, to hear her uttering such words, in so hesitating a voice, that she was put out for a moment and could not frame a phrase of welcome, could not even make a show of cordiality. But she saw that the door at the end of the hall stood ajar; and she said to Truitje, almost angrily:
"Truitje, why is that door open again? You know I want it shut."
"It opens sometimes with the draught, ma'am," replied the maid.
Truitje closed the door and went back to the kitchen; and the two sisters were left alone.
"Come in, Adolphine."
"I'm not disturbing you?"
"Of course not. I'm glad to see you again."
She forced a note of geniality into her voice.
"We haven't met for years," said Adolphine, in hesitating excuse.
"Not for ever so long. I go to the Hague so seldom. Here's Mamma."
The old woman was in the conservatory, gazing out of the window.
"Mamma!" said Adolphine, with emotion. "Mamma!"
She went nearer:
"Good-morning, Mamma. . . ."
The old woman looked at her vacantly:
"It's windy," she said. "The garden is full of big branches. . . ."
"Mamma," said Constance, "here's Adolphine come to see you."
The old woman did not recognize her daughter.
