"Why don't you play the piano or do some painting?"
"Thank you for nothing. I can do that at school. I have no accomplishments."
"Then take a book and read."
"Oh, rot! The books that amuse me I'm not allowed to read; and the books I'm allowed to read don't amuse me. It's one of the drawbacks of my awkward age! Why haven't you joined a tennis-club?"
"Yes, I'm sorry I didn't. I'll see that I do next year."
"Next year . . . that's a long way off. You ought to have thought of it before: you knew that you were expecting your sister and that there wouldn't be much for her to do here. But you can't think of anything here, you can't take your eyes off that horrible white road. It hurts your eyes too. . . . My poor child, how can you stand this place . . . after the Hague! Don't you long for the Hague?"
"Not a bit."
"But what do you do here all the winter?"
"Nothing, Marietje."
"Oh, I know! You've grown pi. You go in for good works. Sewing for the poor."
"There are two poor families for whom I make things sometimes."
