“Bertha?”
“No, not Bertha, Gertrude: Ger-tru-ude!” yelled Auntie Tine.
“Oh, Gertrude?” said Auntie Rine, nodding her head.
“Oh dear!” said Mrs. van Lowe, upset by the thought of the little daughter who had died at Buitenzorg.
“Never mind, Mamma,” said Constance. “They’ll never remember who I am.”
“They’re so obstinate!”
“But they’re so old.”
“It makes me so sad to hear them always taking you for Gertrude. Poor Gertrude!”
“Come, Mamma, you mustn’t mind.”
“No, child. But, oh, why did you go to Bertha’s on Tuesday?”
“What harm did I do, Mamma?”
“No harm, child. But oh dear! . . . Good-evening, Herman; good-evening, Lotje.”
It was Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, with their girls following behind. And Constance saw a look of pity in their eyes.
“I say, Constance . . .” whispered Aunt Lot
“Yes, Auntie?”
“Does Mamma know about that hor-r-rid article?”
Constance turned pale:
“I don’t think so, Auntie.”
“But your sister Dorine must know . . .”
