"That's my eyes, Gerrit: I can't help it if they laugh."
"And you want to make me believe that you get fits of the blues?"
"Well, why shouldn't I?"
"Very likely. But you're not the sort . . ."
"To what?"
"To sit moping for long."
"Well, I didn't. I came to Holland."
"Weren't you doing well in Paris?"
"Not quite so well, perhaps," she said, hesitating between her vanity and certain strange feelings which she did not clearly realize.
"So that's why you came to Holland!"
"I might have gone to London."
"To London?"
"And from there to Berlin."
"Berlin?"
"And then to St. Petersburg."
"Look here, what are you talking about?"
"And next to Constantinople."
"Oh, shut up!"
"And do you know where we finish?"
"What do you mean, finish?"
"At Singapore. You know that's the regular tour."
"Oh, well . . . I've heard it; but that's nonsense."
"So many of us go on that tour. It's not a
