had quarrelled and fought with his cousin, told of the talk in their circle and of the distress of his son. He told on, almost unconsciously, of the wavering, the struggle, the helplessness of Constance and himself when they saw their child pining with that distress. And, almost unconsciously, Van der Welcke confessed, quite simply, that he had spoken to his son as to a man and told his son the truth about his parents’ past.
The old man, quietly smoking, had heard him in silence, glad to listen to his son’s voice. What his son had told him to start with was strange to him: thoughts, feelings, experiences of a very strange life, differing wholly from his own. But what his son told him now made him doubt whether he had heard aright:
“What do you say?” he asked, thinking that he must be hard of hearing.
Van der Welcke repeated what he had said.
“You told . . . Adriaan . . . your past? . . . Told him about Rome and De Staffelaer? . . .”
“Yes, without entering into unnecessary details and with due respect for his youth, I told him the truth, the whole truth. The boy was suffering pain, was distressed because he did not know; and now he is suffering no longer.”
The old man shook his head, put down his pipe:
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Or else there’s something wrong with my hearing. You told . . . Adriaan . . .?”
