“What’s an impossibility?”
“Don’t think only of yourself. Think of us. Think of Van Naghel, of his position. You make it impossible for him, if you insist on . . .”
“Coming to your at-home days . . .?”
“For goodness’ sake, Constance, don’t be angry. It is impossible.”
“What is?”
“For you to . . .”
“What?”
“To force the position. When Mamma spoke to us, eight months ago, about you coming to the Hague, Van Naghel at once said that our house was open to you and your husband, but that you must not push and assert yourselves.”
“So that was the condition?”
“It was not a condition, Constance: it was merely advice, given in your own interest . . .”
“And in yours.”
“Very well, in ours too. People come to my days, just because of my husband’s position and connections, people who are relations and friends of De Staffelaer’s, people who have never forgiven you and never will. Can’t you see that for yourself, Constance? Must I explain it to you?”
“Bertha, I never had any desire to push or assert myself.”
“Then what makes you?”
“What makes me?” And it was as though Constance was searching for the answer. “What but you, all of you?”
