. . . . ought to have been. I have no omeletI have nothing more.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, the story,” said Duclari in droll despair.
“But we have coffee,” cried Tine.
“Good! Then we shall drink coffee in the fore-gallery,[1] and let us invite Madam Slotering and the girls,” said Havelaar, whereupon the small company moved.
“I suppose that she will not come, Max; you know that she prefers not to dine with us, and in this I cannot say that she is wrong.”
“She may have heard that I tell stories,” said Havelaar, “and that must have frightened her.”
“You are wrong there, Max! This would not harm her—she doesn’t understand Dutch. No, she told me that she wished to have her own household; and I understand that very well. You know how you translated my name—‘E. H. v. W.’ ”
“Eigen Haard veel Waard.”[2]
“Just so: she is quite right; she seems, moreover, a little unsociable. Only fancy, she makes the servants drive away all strangers that come near the house. . . .”
“I beg for the story or the omelet,” said Duclari.
