"Well, will you come one evening . . . with Brauws and Van Vreeswijck? Then I'll ask Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline too."
"Rather! That will be lovely. When?"
"I'll write and let you know; don't be so impatient."
"Now you are a darling!"
She hugged her aunt:
"You're looking so nice to-day, Auntie. So pretty. You are really. I say, how old are you?"
"You silly child, what does it matter?"
"I want to know. Wait, I can work it out. Mamma said there was eight years between you. Mamma is fifty. So you must be forty-two."
"Very nearly forty-three. That's old, isn't it?"
"Old? I don't know. For some women. Not for you. You're young. And how young Uncle looks, doesn't he? Why, Addie is more sedate than Uncle! . . . You don't look forty-two, you look ten years less than that. Auntie, isn't it strange how the years go by? I . . . I feel old. One year comes after another; and it all makes me miserable . . . Auntie, tell me, what makes me so fond of you? . . . Sometimes . . . sometimes I feel as if I could cry when I am here . . ."
"Do I make you so sad?"
"No, not that. But, when I'm with you, I don't know why, I'm always thinking . . . even when I'm chattering . . . I feel happy in your house, Auntie.
