older, no longer quite a child, a boy still, but grown into a young man, even though he was only fourteen. . . . Yes, when you were a child, a real child, you looked upon anybody older than yourself as just old. Now, he was astounded: how young Papa was; and how much older Mamma was! True, her face was young still, but she had grey hair, she was forty-three. . . . He could imagine Papa with a very young wife, a girl almost, like one of the cousins, Louise or Emilie, or Floortje: Papa and a wife like that would make a good pair. . . . How young he was, how young he was! . . . He was now sleeping like a child, on Addie’s stomach, peacefully breathing. . . . Dear old Father! . . . No, not a bit old: as young as a brother, as a friend, as a chum. So jolly too and so mad sometimes. . . . And then suddenly he would try to be the stern parent! Dear Father!—Addie laughed—That didn’t come off at all! He loved him like that: so young, such a friend, such a chum, such a brother. . . . Mamma was his mother, always, even though he did sometimes flirt with her; but Papa was not a Papa, Papa was his friend and his brother. But, young though Papa was, Addie nevertheless thought it strange that he had said to him so often:
“My life is shattered, my career is done for.”
Why was that? Was it only because Papa had had to leave the diplomatic service when he was still quite young and had married Mamma? But Addie was a sensible and prematurely intelligent child; and his bright, young intelligence could not admit that;
