"Aunt Constance!" she called. "Do come and help me. Mr. Brauws isn't at all nice."
Constance came up.
"He's not nice, your friend," Marianne went on, like a spoilt child, a little frightened. "He wants . . . he absolutely insists on quarrelling with me. Do take my part!"
And she suddenly flitted away to another chair and, bending behind her fan to Van der Welcke:
"That Brauws man is a most disagreeable person. Why can't he let me alone?"
She felt safe with him, this man of her own class, who joined hands with her own selfish, happiness-craving youth—for he was young—a small soul, like hers. Her small soul hung on his eyes; and she felt that she loved him. As long as she did not think about it and abandoned herself to her overflowing happiness, she remained happy, full of radiance; it was only at home that it cost her tears and bitter agony.
"You're surely not angry with my little niece?" asked Constance.
He was still pale, under the rough bronze of his cheeks.
"Yes," he said, sombrely.
"Why?" she asked, almost beseechingly. "She is a child!"
"No, she is not merely a child. She represents to me . . ."
