"I'm jealous, Auntie. Why should he come when you don't ask me? Doesn't Mr. Van Vreeswijck ever come now either? If you're angry with me, I'll be an angel in the future, I'll never invite myself again. But do invite me again, yourself!"
"But, you silly child, I'm not angry."
"Yes, you are; you're cross with me. You're not the same. You're different towards me. I feel it. I see it."
"But, Marianne . . ."
"Aren't you? Am I wrong? . . . Tell me that you're not cross with me."
She knelt down by Constance, caressingly.
"Marianne, what a baby you arel . . . I am not cross: there!"
"Say it once more, like a darling."
"I—am—not—cross. There: are you satisfied?"
"Yes, I believe you now. And when am I coming to dinner?"
"You little tyrant!"
"I daren't ask myself again."
"What do you like so much in our dinners?"
"They're just what I do like. The other night, when I was so bored at the Court ball, I thought, 'So long as Auntie asks me again soon, I don't mind anything!'"
"Rubbish! I don't believe a word of it!"
"It's quite true."
