“No, but to marry her afterwards.”
“There aren’t many who would have done it.”
“She’s older than he.”
“Six years older.”
“No, four years.”
“No one else would have done it.”
“No, no one.”
“And he was a deucedly decent fellow.”
“Always was.”
“Always was.”
“She was older than he, she knew the world . . .”
“And she seduced him; he was quite a youngster.”
It all sounded as though the years, the many years, had never existed.
“Yes, but, you know, it’s sometimes difficult, for a woman who’s young and pretty . . .”
“Then why did she marry such an old man?”
“Out of vanity, nothing but vanity.”
They judged, defended and condemned her as though the years, the many years, had never existed.
The acquaintances of the Van Lowes, or of their acquaintances, or the relations of their relations were no worse than other people. But they met one another at tea-parties and at evening-parties, at the Witte and at Scheveningen, and they must have food for conversation. Whatever important things might be happening in the world, the one interest, when all was said, was to discuss, over and over again, a case like that of Constance. They disliked neither her nor Van der Welcke; and her case even
