hem; he remembered that the dining-room had been cleaned that day; and he could restrain himself no longer:
“Dorine,” he said, in despair, “in that case, won’t you let Marie brush you down first?”
Then, at last, Dorine realized that she was not fit to be seen, after trotting and tramming the whole afternoon in the rain. She looked in the glass: when she had taken off her wet cape, she would be less presentable than ever. And so she dolefully changed her mind:
“You’re right, Karel, I don’t look nice; and my boots are wet: I think I had better go home and change for the evening. So good-bye for the present, Karel.”
“Good-bye, Dorine.”
The gong sounded again. Dorine clutched her reticule, hunted all round the room for her umbrella, until she remembered that it was outside, and hurried away, while Karel repaired the disorder on his writing-table and put the paper-weight and paper-knife straight.
In the hall, Dorine met her round-faced sister-in-law staring at her with startled eyes like an owl’s. Cateau asked, in a slow, whining voice that emphasized every third or fourth word:
“Oh, Do-rine . . . are you re-ally . . . staying to din-ner?”
“No, thanks, Cateau; it’s very kind of you, but I must change my things. They’re all coming this evening, to Mamma’s.”
