“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, becoming interested. “Don’t beat about the bush; say what you meant to say.”
“I couldn’t understand your having the idea, or how the idea could ever have occurred to your wife: I tell you so, honestly. De Staffelaer is a relation of the Eilenburgs and of the Van Heuvel Steyns; and it would surely be painful for you and your wife to meet those people, wouldn’t it? . . . That’s all.”
“Short and sweet,” said Van der Welcke, still feeling put out.
“But that’s the whole point of it.”
“You’re right,” muttered Van der Welcke, gloomily. “Perhaps we ought never to have come to the Hague.”
“Nonsense!” said Van Vreeswijck, rather feebly. “Your old friends are glad to see you back again. The question of the Court is non-existent with you both. Well, then there’s nothing to fret about. . . . As for myself, I am more than glad to see you at the Hague again,” he continued, more cheerfully, almost in a tone of relief. “I have the pleasantest memories of the occasions when I had the privilege of meeting your wife in Brussels. When would it suit you both for me to come and call?”
“Will you look round one evening? Or, if you really want to be friendly, come and dine.”
“I should like to, above all things. When shall I come?”
“Day after to-morrow, at seven.”
