how like . . . how like Henri, when he was that age!”
The old man nodded gently. The past was coming back to the old people; and it was as if they saw their own son when he was thirteen. They were so much surprised at this that they could only stare at the boy, as though they did not believe their eyes, as though it were some strange dream.
Constance stood stiffly and said nothing. But the old woman now said:
“It is a great pleasure to us to see you here, Constance.”
Constance tried to smile:
“You are very kind,” she said, pleasantly.
“But do sit down,” said the old woman, trembling, and she pointed to the chairs.
They all sat down; and Henri made an effort to talk naturally, about Driebergen. The past that lay between them was so high-heaped that it seemed as though they were never to approach one another across this obstacle. So many words that should have been spoken had remained unspoken, for the sake of an harmonious silence, that silence itself became a torture; and so many years were piled between the parents and the children that it seemed impossible for them now to reach one another with words. The words fell strangely in the sombre room, which looked out upon the March garden and upon the road paling away in the vague mists; the words fell like things, strangely, like hard, round
