“Don’t let Mamma notice!” Uncle Ruyvenaer warned them.
And he went away, full of suppressed excitement.
But they remained in the boudoir. The portrait looked down upon them.
“Oh, my God!” Constance began sobbing; and she looked up at the portrait. “Papa, Papa! Oh, my God!”
“Hush, Constance!”
“Let me read it!”
“No.”
Adolphine appeared in the doorway. She said nothing, but realized what they were talking about and turned away. And they heard Adolphine say aloud, in a hard voice, to Uncle Ruyvenaer:
“It’s their own fault!”
Van der Welcke flared up, no longer able to master himself. He spun round to the door; Paul tried to hold him back, but it was too late; and, on the threshold, with his face close to Adolphine’s, he roared:
“Why is it my own fault?”
“Why?” asked Adolphine, furiously, remembering the lofty tone which he had adopted to her after the quarrel of the two boys. “Why? You should have remained in Brussels!”
“Adolphine!” cried Van der Welcke, purple in the face, seething, roaring, with every nerve quivering. “You’re a woman and an ill-mannered woman; and so you can allow yourself to say anything you please to a man. But, if your husband
