Scheveningen was overcrowded, with its Sunday visitors; but the Hijdrechts were quite amusing and Frans was always pleasant.
It was late, close upon six, when he decided to go home.
“Well, good-bye, old man,” said Frans.
Addie pressed Frans’ hand, wanted to thank him for the walk, but was too proud, because of that pity, and could not:
“I’ll come and fetch my bicycle to-morrow,” was all he said, dully.
And he went home slowly, alone. He felt as though he could not go home; as though he would have liked to walk somewhere else, anything to escape going home. He felt as though, suddenly, he had to drag with him a heavy sorrow, too heavy for his years, and as though it lay on his chest, on his throat, on his lungs. But he reached home at last, about half-past six.
“How late you are, Addie,” said Constance, a little annoyed. “We’ve been waiting for you for the last half hour. Have you been with the three boys?”
“Yes,” said Addie.
“Oh, then, it’s all right,” she said.
They sat down to dinner, but Addie was quiet, did not eat.
“What is it, my boy?” asked Van der Welcke.
“Nothing,” said Addie.
But his parents were not used to seeing their child
