four or five things every day which you couldn’t possibly avoid. . . .”
Bertha smiled vaguely; and Constance suddenly felt that she mustn’t talk about Rome. She winced: she could not mention De Staffelaer’s name, must ignore all that period of importance. . . . It suddenly upset her nerves, for she had not reflected that, even among her brothers and sisters, she would have to be careful, to exercise tact. She had come to them just because she wanted to be able to let herself go, to be frank and natural; but she felt strongly that Bertha disapproved of her for venturing to refer to Rome. She would have liked to talk about Rome, partly from vanity, to remind her sister, the wife of a minister, who was “in the movement,” that she too had known greatness and lived in the midst of it. But she felt that she must be humble, that she was nothing more than Mrs. van der Welcke, the sister who had made a false step in life, who had married her “lover” and who, years after, had been taken into favour by the charity of the family. This was clearly expressed in Bertha’s hard, ceremonious Van Lowe face, with the blinking eyes, even though Bertha spoke not a word.
Constance was silent, went on playing; Uncle Ruyvenaer was noisy, cracked his jokes:
“The queen falls,” he said, in his fat voice. “One more unfortunate!” he shouted, clamorously.
And, playing his ace, with a wide sweep of his hand he gathered in the trick. Constance went
