And she managed to get the tears into her eyes and squeezed them out.
But Constance remained indifferent:
“What sort of things?” she asked.
“What sort of things?” snapped Adolphine, furiously, crying with temper, offended at the refusal, forgetting all the nice things that Constance had said about Floortje’s trousseau, hating her sister at the moment. “What sort of things? That you are not Papa’s daughter!”
“That I . . .?”
“That you are not Papa’s daughter!” shrieked the other, getting more excited at every word, deliberately screwing herself up into a frenzy of nerves. “They’re slandering Mamma, they’re slandering Mamma! Yes, they’re saying that you’re not Papa’s daughter!”
Constance shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, what do you say to it?” demanded Adolphine.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing?” cried Adolphine, beside herself because Constance remained so cool at such a revelation. “Nothing? Oh, I expect you’re accustomed to have people talking about you. Well, I’m not, d’you see? I have always been used to decency and respectability in my circle, among my friends. No one ever talked about us before. No one ever said that I wasn’t Papa’s daughter. . . .”
“You can’t tell. There’s time yet!” said Constance.
