it is not that. . . No, to look at it, to dream of it, and to. . . be good!”
Duclari and Verbrugge certainly thought this conclusion very strange.
But Max did not notice it, and continued:—
“For so noble were the features that one felt somewhat ashamed to be only a man, and not a spark. . . . a beam. . . . no, that would be substance. . . . a thought. . . . Butsuddenly a brother or a father sat down beside these women, . . . . goodness! I saw one blow her nose!”
“I knew that yon would draw a black stripe across it,” said Tine.
“Is that my fault? I would rather have seen her fall down dead;
“Ought such a girl so far to forget herself?”
“But, Mr. Havelaar,” asked Verbrugge, “suppose she had a bad cold?”
“Well, she ought not to have a bad cold with such a nose. . . . .”
As if an evil spirit spoke, Tine suddenly sneezed. . . and before she thought of it, she had blown her nose!
“Dear Max! don’t be angry!” said she, with a suppressed laugh.
He did not reply; and however foolish it seems, or is,—yes, he was angry. And what sounds strange too, Tine was glad that he was angry, and that he required her to
