stifling a sigh, the old woman sat down at the other window, wearily folded her hands, placed her tired feet side by side on a stool.
The room grew dark, the windows turned grey, just outlined by the curtains. The road was more and more blurred in the dimness of the windy night. A grey melancholy reigned without and a grey melancholy reigned within, with those two old people, each sitting silent at a window, lonely and forlorn, drearily sunk in their own thoughts. They sat thus for a long time, quietly, without a word. Then the old woman said:
“It is Henri’s birthday to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said the old man. “He will be thirty-nine.”
And they said nothing more and stared before them. Then the old woman grew restless again and rose from her chair with difficulty, hobbled through the room, holding on by the chairs as she went, and rang the bell:
“Light the gas and bring in the tea, Piet.”
The butler lit the gas, drew the curtains and brought the tea. The old man sat down at the table with a book; and the light fell harshly on his ivory forehead and his blue-shaven face; his gnarled, bony hands cast large shadows over the book, turned the pages at regular intervals.
“Here’s your tea, Hendrik.”
The old man drank his cup of tea.
Then the old woman also took her book and read. . . .
