what a sweet child she was! What a sweet, pretty child! Twenty years ago: why, it’s an age! She must have grown old! Yes, of course she must: she must have grown old! How old is she? It’s easy to reckon: she must be forty-two, eh? And Van der Welcke is a nice fellow, what? Very decent of him, I’m bound to say, very decent. . . .”
Mamma van Lowe turned very white; Dorine gave an angry look; Toetie Ruyvenaer pulled Papa’s sleeve:
“Allah,[1] that Papa!” she whispered, good-naturedly, to her sister Dotje. “No tact. . . .”
“Ye-es,” Aunt Ruyvenaer began in a fat, slow voice, “was it so long ago? Kassian!”[2] she added, sympathetically. “Poor Constance! I’m so glad I’m going to see her!”
“Papa!” said Poppie Ruyvenaer, the youngest.
“What is it?”
“How can you?”
“What?”
“You’re upsetting Aunt Marie: don’t you see?”
“But, good Lord. . . !”
“Oh, do stop about Constance.”
“What have I said? . . .”
“If you don’t stop, you’ll make Aunt Marie cry. Don’t you understand? . . .”
“Oh, mustn’t I talk about Constance? There’s always something in our family one mustn’t talk about. . . . It’s beyond me!”
And Uncle began to stride up and down the
