little house, a home of his own, a dear little wife, children. . . . He talked to his mother about it; and she was delighted; because she had long been thinking that he ought to get married. . . . He was thirty-five now; yes, really, it would be a good thing to get married. . . . And she looked about and found Adeline for him: a good family, of French descent; connections in India, which was always nice; no money, but the Van Lowes never looked at money, though they hadn't so very much themselves, comparatively, professing a laughing contempt for the dross which, all the same, they could very well do with. A dear little girl, Adeline, young—she was thirteen years younger than her husband—fair-haired and placid: a regular little mother even as a girl. And Gerrit, though he had had a brief vision of other women, other girls, had thought:
"Oh, well, yes, a bit bread-and-buttery; but you want a different sort for your wife than you do for your mistress!"
And, after all, she was round and plump, a little round ball, even as a girl, and nice to hug, even though she was a bit short and though her figure was badly deficient in the lines that set his blood tingling. He never for a moment fell in love with Adeline; but he saw her for what she was: his wife and the mother of his children, the little tribe for which he longed, because it was such a pity
