in the eyes. She said nothing, she did nothing but that: merely looked into Bertha’s eyes while still holding her hand. And, for a moment, they looked into each other’s souls.
There were no more callers; the rest of the room was talking busily; and Bertha just had the opportunity to say something that forced its way to her lips:
“Constance, that article . . .”
“Yes? . . .”
“Van Naghel is very much upset by it.”
Constance shrugged her shoulders.
“Have you heard about it?”
“Yes, I found a copy of it in my letter-box. It’s one of those libels . . .”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s beneath us to let ourselves be worried by a thing like that.”
“Yes, but . . . it’s most unpleasant . . . for Van Naghel. . . .”
“It’s not particularly pleasant for me either, but . . .”
And she shrugged her shoulders again, refusing to admit how she had suffered under it, trembling in all her nerves at those printed words of scandal. But she understood that Bertha also had been suffering all these days under that shower of mud, which clung to you, however lofty your attitude of contemptuous indifference might be. And Bertha found another moment in which to say:
“Constance . . .”
