“Delighted. Just yourselves? And I’ll call and leave a card to-morrow.”
“By the way,” said Van der Welcke. “You mentioned De Staffelaer: where is he now?”
“At his country-place, near Haarlem. He’s still flourishing. He’s well over eighty.”
“He must be.”
They parted. Van der Welcke went gloomily home. It was curious, but, every afternoon, when he went home from the Witte or the Plaats, he had that gloomy, unsettled feeling. The moment he set eyes on Addie, however, his face at once lighted up; but, this time, when the boy wanted to romp, before dinner, Van der Welcke began to think whether Constance would approve of his having asked Van Vreeswijck to dinner two days later. . . .
They sat down to table:
“By the way,” said Van der Welcke, hesitatingly, “I met Van Vreeswijck; and he wanted to call on you and asked when it would suit you.”
“He might have done so long ago,” said Constance, who had entertained Van Vreeswijck once or twice in Brussels.
“He apologized,” said Van der Welcke, in defence of his friend. “He did not know whether you were quite settled. I told him he must come and dine one night and—if it’s not too much trouble for you—I asked him to come the day after tomorrow.”
“I think he might have paid a visit first.”
“He said something about leaving a card to-mor-
