their glance, as if he were a brand which a spark from them set on fire! . . . And she knew it, she knew well enough that she sent him mad with her eyes! . . . Was she back at the Hague? At the time, she had suddenly gone to Paris and he had not seen her for years . . . for at least twelve years. He was twelve years older now; she was twelve years older. How rotten, that getting old, that wearing out of your miserable carcase, of the one body which you got in this world and which you took to the grave with you and which you couldn't change, as you change into a new uniform! . . . Well, his was still fit and strong; and Pauline's eyes laughed as they used to do. . . .
Twelve years? Come, he wouldn't think about it any longer! If he once started remembering everything that had happened years and years ago, the day would be too short for his recollections!
And, in the staidness of his riper years, he forgot the meeting on the Koninginnegracht and even thought that he might easily have been mistaken and that it wasn't Pauline at all. . . . He was no longer lonely in his house, now that his wife and the children filled the home once more; and he felt that he must always have it like this in future: the warmth of the snug home around him; that otherwise he would feel unhappy and queer and lonely, as in those months last summer. And the first Sunday evening at Mamma's sent a cheerful glow
