“How’s Adeline?”
“She’s well. The doctor called this afternoon. She’s very well indeed. Oh, she doesn’t upset herself for a small affair like that!”
The big, fair man laughed nervously, boisterously filling the whole room with his loose-limbed strength. Then he went up to Constance:
“Connie,” he whispered, “I’m so furious, so furious!”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Haven’t you? Haven’t you? Then don’t!”
“But what do they say?”
“Nothing. Don’t read it.”
But she hardly listened to Gerrit, for she now saw Van der Welcke and Paul standing in a corner, in the back-drawing-room. She moved in their direction. She saw that Van der Welcke, with his back turned to the other room, was reading something, screened by a curtain, while Paul was warning him, anxiously:
“Come, give it me, quick . . . Van der Welcke . . .”
Constance was behind them:
“Paul, tell me, that article . . .”
“The scoundrels, the scoundrels!” Van der Welcke was hissing.
“Henri, have you it? Give it to me.”
“No, Constance!” Paul implored her. “Don’t read it, don’t read it.”
“Give it to me, Henri!”
“I want to read it myself first!”
