“Yes, Marianne, I thought it very nice to be back among you all.”
“Don’t you like Brussels better than the Hague?”
“It was so quiet for us, lately, in Brussels.”
“Rome, I should like to see Rome.”
“Yes, Rome is beautiful.”
They were now silent and they both felt that things of the past parted them, the new, strange aunt, who had come back from the past, and the young girl, who was suddenly afraid of it.
And, without understanding why, Marianne sighed, in the midst of this shrinking fear:
“Oh, for a joy, a real joy that would fill me entirely! No more dinners and dresses and excitement about nothing, but a real joy, a great joy!”
She felt so strange, so giddy, but she still found strength to say:
“It’s a pity that you were away from us so long. We should always have liked you and Uncle very much, but now you are both so strange still, to all of us.”
“Yes,” replied Constance, very wearily.
And she did not understand why she suddenly felt very sad, as though, after all, for manifold reasons, she had not done well to come back, though there had been that hunger for her own people, her own kith and kin. . . .
“A joy, a great joy!” Marianne again sighed, softly.
And she pressed her hands to her breast, as though distressed by her strange longing. . . .
