“Who?”
“Constance!”
“Constance?”
“Yes, Constance!”
“Constance?”
“Yes, Constance!”
“The bad one!” screamed Auntie Rine.
“Yes, Rine, the bad one, Rine. She’s a wicked woman, Rine, a wicked woman! She has a lover! . . .”
“A lover?”
“Yes, Rine. Can you understand her being here? Can you understand that she’s not ashamed? Can you understand her showing herself? Yes, Rine, she’s a wicked woman, she’s . . . she’s . . .”
“What is she, Tine?”
“She’s . . . she’s a trollop, Rine!” Auntie Tine yelled, shrilly. “A common trollop! A trollop!”
“Christine!” cried Mrs. van Lowe. “Christine! Dorine!”
And she stood up and tottered, with outstretched arms, towards the two old sisters. But there was a loud scream and a laugh that cut into everybody like a knife: Constance had fainted in Paul’s arms. . . .
The boy, Addie, looked round with a haughty glance. He had heard everything, as had Van der Welcke, who stood listening apprehensively at the door of the boudoir. The son saw his father’s deathly-pale face staring like a mask. He saw the horror of his grandmother and of all his uncles and aunts. He now saw his mother prostrate in a chair,
