natures were not made to harmonize; and Dorine was now muttering that Constance must always have men about her, that she got on best with Gerrit and Paul, who both paid court to her after a fashion. Her brothers had never paid court to her, Dorine, after any fashion. Yes, pretty women were always at an advantage, even with their own brothers. All she, Dorine, was good for was to trot about and run errands for the brothers and sisters. And yet it was very strange, but, since Bertha and Adolphine had been out of town and Dorine went oftener to Adeline’s, she would ask of her own accord, “Adelientje, I’m going into town this afternoon: is there anything I can do for you?” and, when Adeline answered, “It’s very sweet of you, Dorine, but really, there’s nothing I want,” Dorine would reply, “Well, just think again: I have to go into town, you see;” and then, if Adeline said, “Well, Dorine, if you’re going in any case, would you look in at Schröder’s for some pinafores for Adeletje and at Möller and Thijs’ for shoes: they all want shoes,” Dorine would go off at a trot and hurry, with her wide-legged, shuffling gait, to Schröder’s and to Möller and Thijs’, muttering to herself:
“When it’s not Bertha or Adolphine, it’s Adeline who manages to make use of me!”
“I think Gerrit a most companionable brother,” said Constance, one evening, while Paul sat taking tea with her.
“Yes, he’s a good sort, but he’s queer.”
“But why queer, Paul? You’re always saying
