“Regular hotel-food.”
“H’m. The champagne was good,” said Uncle, who had drunk his fill.
“How badly Van Naghel spoke! Does he speak as badly as that when he introduces his Indian budget? And what a figure Van Raven’s mother cuts! She looks like I don’t know what!”
“Still, they’re smart people.”
“Yes, of course they’re smart, or Bertha would never have seized upon him for her daughter! He’s a fast creature, that future nephew of mine. And how Emilie hangs on to him! If Floortje hung on to Dijkerhof like that, I should give her a good talking-to when we got home. Emilie behaves just like a street-girl.”
Uncle was in a good humour, because he had plenty to drink; he was puffing a bit and would have liked to undo a button of his waistcoat: that dress-waistcoat of his was getting rather tight for him.
“How pretty Floortje is looking, Adolphine. That white suits her.”
She laughed happily; she felt flattered:
“Yes, doesn’t it? It makes Emilie look so pale.”
Mamma van Lowe passed on Otto van Naghel’s arm:
“Is Frances better, my boy?”
“Yes, Granny, she’s pretty well to-day. But she gets tired so soon.”
He was tall and thin, with a scowl above his hard Van Lowe eyes, his grandfather’s eyes. His two years in Java had made him so bitter that it was
