“Marie asks how you are, Rine. She is so deaf, Marie.”
“Oh, I’m all right. . . . Who’s that?”
And Aunt Dorine pointed to Constance, always failing to recognize her, with the stubbornness of second childhood.
“That’s Constance,” said Mrs. Van Lowe.
“That’s Gertrude!” Auntie Tine would say next. “Isn’t it, Marie? That’s Gertrude!”
“No, Christine, Gertrude died as a child at Buitenzorg.”
But Auntie Tine was yelling in Auntie Rine’s ear:
“That’s Marie’s daughter!”
“Marie’s daughter?”
“Yes, Gertrude, Gertru-u-ude!”
Constance smiled:
“Never mind, Mamma,” she whispered.
And Mamma said good-bye:
“Well, good-bye, Dorine and Christine.”
“What d’you say?”
“Good-bye, Dorine and Christine; we must go.”
“They’ve got to go!” yelled Auntie Tine in Auntie Rine’s ear.”
“Oh, have they got to go? Where are they going?”
“Home!”
“Oh, home? Oh, don’t they live here? . . . Well, good-bye, Marie; thanks for your visit. Good-bye, Gertrude! You are Gertrude, aren’t you?”
“Ye-e-es!” Auntie Tine assured her, in a shrill,
