“Oh, Auntie!”
“What is it?”
“Is life worth all this bother and fuss? Getting married, moving your things, dancing, giving dinners and parties, ordering dresses that don’t fit and cost hundreds, being ill, having babies, eating boeboer: Auntie, is it really all worth while?”
“Why, Marianne, I might be listening to Paul!”
“Oh, no, I’m not so eloquent as Paul! But I’m suffocating with it all, I’m stifling and I’m terribly, terribly, terribly unhappy!”
“Marianne!”
The young girl suddenly burst into nervous sobs and threw herself into Constance’ arms. Around her, the room was one scene of confusion; the doors were all open.
“Marianne, let me shut the doors.”
“No, Auntie, don’t mind about that, but stay with me, do! It’s more than I can stand, more than I can stand! I’m so tired of this rush, of this unnecessary excitement, of the party yesterday, of those tableaux-vivants, of Floortje’s jealousy, of Aunt Adolphine’s spitefulness, I am tired, tired, tired of everything. I can’t stand it, Auntie. I’m so fond of Emilie, we’ve always been together, it was so nice, so jolly; and now, all at once, she’s getting married to that hateful man; and she’s taking away her sketches; and it’s all over; and now everything’s gone, everything’s gone! And Henri too is so upset about it: he dotes on Emilie, just as I do, and he can’t understand either what she’s doing it for.
