no, that would still be matter!—a thought! But . . . then all at once a brother or a father would be sitting by the side of those women, and . . . so help me God, I saw one who blew her nose!”
“Didn’t I know that you would again draw a black line across it!” said Tine, vexed.
“Is that my fault? I should have preferred to see her fall down dead! May such a woman desecrate herself?”
“But surely, Mr. Havelaar,” asked Verbrugge, “suppose she had a cold?”
“Well, she should not have had a cold with such a nose!”
“Yes, but . . .”
Just then, as though Old Nick took a hand in the game, Tine suddenly felt that she must sneeze, and . . . before she could stop herself she had blown her nose!
“Max, my dear boy, don’t be cross!” she begged with a half-restrained laugh.
He did not answer. And, however foolish it may seem or be . . . yes, he was cross about it! And what will sound strange also, Tine was pleased that he was cross, and that therefore he demanded more from her than from the Phocean women of Arles, even though it was not because she had cause to be proud of her nose.
If Duclari still thought that Havelaar was “mad,” one could not have blamed him for feeling confirmed in that opinion on noticing the momentary irritation which, after and on account of that nose-blowing, was to be read on Havelaar’s face. But the latter had come back from Carthage and now read—with the celerity with which he could read when his mind was not too far away from home—on the faces of his guests that they were setting up the following two theses:
- He who does not wish his wife to blow her nose is a fool.
- He who thinks that a nose cut in beautiful lines may not be blown is mistaken in applying this opinion to Mrs. Havelaar, whose nose is slightly pomme de terre.
