what to say. He stared at Addie; and his silence meant confession to Addie.
“I am Mamma’s child, am I not, but not yours? I am the child of an Italian. . . .”
“My boy, who told you that?”
“Jaap.”
“But, Addie, it’s not true!”
“Oh, you only say that it’s not true, but it is true. . . .”
But now Van der Welcke, after his first amazement, suddenly realized the boy’s distress and caught him in his arms and took him on his knees, there, in the big chair:
“Addie, Addie, I swear to you, it’s not true! My child, it’s not true, you are my child, you are my boy, you are mine, you are mine, mine, mine!”
“Is it really true?”
“You’re mine, you’re mine, Addie! They lie, they lie! Good Lord! My boy, would I love you so madly, if you were not my boy?”
And he pressed his son to his breast, his two arms tightly round him.
“Papa, can I trust you?”
“Yes, yes, my boy! God! Those vile people! Who says it and why do they say it? And it’s a lie, Addie; they lie, they lie. You’re my child, mine, mine alone, my son and Mamma’s son, my child, my darling! Would we, your two parents, your father and your mother, be so fond of you, so passionately fond of you, if it were not so?”
Now Addie believed and he burst into sobs. He
