that she could have begged so earnestly for something that was so small, of such little importance to her soul, to the world. She could not have done it now . . . She did not understand how she could so long have cherished a grudge against Van Naghel, against Bertha . . . because they did not ask her to their official dinners, when the invitation would have given her the rehabilitation which she sought. At the present moment, she did not even desire that rehabilitation, did not care about it, treated it as something that had become of no value: an idea which had withered and shrivelled within her and which blew away like a dead leaf to far-off spacious skies . . . Addie? He did not need his mother's rehabilitation in the eyes of the Hague. The boy would make his own way in life . . . Oh, how small she had been, to beg for it; to go on bearing a grudge, months on end, for something so little, so infinitesimal . . . so absolutely non-existent! . . . She felt that something had grown up inside her and was looking down upon all that earlier business . . . No, there was no bitterness left. She felt a deep pity and a sisterly affection for this poor, old woman, Bertha, who now lay feebly and impotently in her arms, begging . . . for what? She collected her thoughts: what could she do, how could she help Bertha? Her thoughts crowded upon one another rapidly; she thought vaguely of Van der Welcke, of Addie: what could they do, how could
