flaan. No, she felt fresh zest, fresh courage; and she almost pushed Bertha as she repeated:
“Call your husband. . . . Paul, will you please call Van der Welcke and ask him to come to the boudoir? . . .”
She could hardly walk, she was pale as a corpse; and her black eyes quivered. She went alone to the little boudoir. There was no one there. Decanters, glasses, cakes and sandwiches were put out, as usual. She looked up at her father’s portrait. Oh, what an ugly daub it seemed to her: hard, with the hard, expressionless eyes and all that false glitter on the yellow-and-white stars of the decorations! It stared at her like an implacable spectre, grim and unforgiving. It stared at her almost as though it wished to speak:
“Go. Go away. Go out of my house of honour, of greatness and decency. Go. Go away. Go out of my town. Go away from me and mine. Go. It was you who murdered me. You caused my long illness, you caused my death, you, you! Go!”
The little room stifled her. She would have liked to run away, but Van der Welcke and Paul entered.
“What do you want to do, Constance?” asked Van der Welcke.
“To speak to Van Naghel.”
“Not an explanation?”
“I don’t know. He’s annoyed at my visit of Tuesday last.”
“Annoyed!” Van der Welcke seethed. “Annoyed at your visit!”
