why, no doubt because life would be still more stodgy without Marianne's eyes and voice. But, after all, it was only once every four or five weeks that she used to come and dine; so what did it really matter? What did it matter? No, really nothing mattered; really, the whole world was a sickening, stodgy business, rottenly managed . . . Oh, if he could only have bought a motor! The longing was so intense, so violent that he was almost tempted to ask his father for one straight out. And now, while he spurted home after his long ride, he hummed between his teeth, to the rhythm of the flying wheels, a song which he suddenly made up for himself:
"A motor-car—and a motor-car: Ottocar in a motor-car—Ottocar in a motor-car!"
And burning with his longing for the unattainable, he pedalled away—Ottocar in a motor-car!—in a mad frenzy, delighting in the sheer speed of his ride, which made people turn round and stare at him, at his arched back and his piston-legs, like an automaton's . . .
He came home very late, just as Addie was starting to go to the station.
"I really thought, Daddy, that you were staying at the Witte after all!" said the boy. "You're so late!"
"No, old chap, I wouldn't have dared do that!" cried Van der Welcke. "Ottocar—in a motor-
