“What a nui-sance,” thought Cateau. “Now the carriage will ab-solute-ly have to wait.”
It was raining; and this meant that the brougham would get wet. The horse was jobbed; the coachman did not count: he was only a man.
“Ah, Adolph-ine! This is nice of you. . . .”
“I see your carriage is at the door. . . . Are you going out?”
“Yes, pres-ently, to pay a visit . . . or two. . . .”
“So am I. But don’t let me keep you. I am going to Constance this afternoon.”
“So are we.”
“Oh, are you? I would really rather have waited till she had called on me.”
“Oh,” said Cateau, “it looks as if we weren’t friend-ly, to cal-culate it so close-ly, don’t you think, Adolph-ine? But do sit down, Adolph-ine.”
Adolphine sat down, for she was paying Karel and Cateau a visit; and, if she had not sat down, the visit would not have been paid, would not have counted as a visit. Perhaps that was also the reason why Karel and Cateau urged Adolphine to sit down: otherwise, she would have been obliged to come back another day.
They all sat down: the brother, the sister, the sister-in-law. Outside, the rain was pouring in torrents; and already the brougham was glistening with the wet: Cateau’s saucer-eyes watched every drop through the curtains. The usual drawing-room talk began:
“What terrible wea-ther, isn’t it, Adolph-ine?”
