“Addie, how could you, how could you believe it for a moment?”
“But then why do people say it?”
“Because they are spiteful.”
“But why do people say it?”
There was still a lurking suspicion in him. If he was not the son of an Italian, why did people talk about his parents’ past, years ago, at Rome. And, though he believed Papa now, there was still much suspicion in him and he kept on saying to himself:
“But then why do people say it? . . .”
It tossed about in his mind, that there must be something that Papa was keeping back. But he believed, he wanted to believe Papa: yes, yes, he was Papa’s child. And that was his great content, after the sorrow which he had suffered a whole day long: that he had not loved Papa for nothing, that he was the child of the man whom he loved. . . .
“Addie!”
It was Constance calling from downstairs.
“Hush!” said Van der Welcke. “Hush, my boy! Say nothing to Mamma, let Mamma see nothing, for it would cause her so much pain, unnecessarily; and you do believe me now, don’t you? You do believe me now, when I assure you that I couldn’t possibly, Addie, couldn’t possibly be so fond of you else?”
Yes, he now believed his father’s word, which he felt to be the truth; he believed, but still, still there was something. But he did not want to ask anything more now: Papa himself was too much upset;
