“Oh?” said Marianne. “Is that all it means, loving a man? Is that love?”
A maid entered:
“Freule, there’s a box come from Brussels, with your dresses. Mevrouw wants to know if it can be brought up at once, so as not to make a litter downstairs.”
“Yes, they can bring it up.”
Overwrought, Marianne had sunk into a chair and closed her eyes. She was in a state of nervous excitement, while Emilie, with strange calmness, was collecting boxes, portraits, ornaments.
“Emilie,” said Marianne, resignedly, “what a mess your’re making!”
“Never mind, I’m taking it all away.”
“Yes, that’s just it: everything’s going away, everything’s going away!”
“Marianne, do control yourself.”
Two maids came dragging along a packing-case.
“Where shall we put it, freule?”
“Leave it there, in the passage.”
Bertha came upstairs:
“Unpack it at once, Emilie, or the things will crease.”
“Do you think it’s my wedding-dress?”
“I expect so.”
“Then it can go on the bed.”
“No, it had better be hung in the wardrobe.”
The servants opened the packing-case and produced cardboard boxes. A third maid entered:
“A bill from Van der Laan’s, mevrouw.”
