voices: a soft, well-bred society-ripple, a ring of silver, a faint tinkling of crystal.
"The blackguard!" thought the old nurse.
She was down in the hall now: from the kitchen came the voices of bustling maids, of the chef, the footmen. The cloak-room was lighted and open, was full of wraps and overcoats. On the other side of the hall was the sitting-room of the two undergraduates.
Old Leentje opened the door. She saw Van Raven standing opposite Henri; their voices clashed, in bitter enmity:
"Then why did Emilie telegraph to me?"
"I don't know; but our affairs don't concern you."
"Mr. Henri, Mr. Eduard," said the old nurse, "your papa asks, will you please not speak loud . . ."
"Where is Emilie?" asked Henri.
"The poor dear is in Marianne's room," said Leentje. "Come with me, my boy . . ."
She took Henri, who was shaking all over, by the hand. And, as she left the room with Henri, she said, out loud:
"The blackguard!"
"Who?" asked Henri.
"He!"
"What has he done?"
"What hasn't he done!"
