tell me about it! Don't keep it to yourself. Sorrow . . . chokes us . . . when we keep it in."
"No, it's not sorrow. . . It's . . . I don't know what it is. . . ."
"You don't know?"
"No."
"But there's something, you see. What is it?"
"Constance, it's . . . it's . . ."
"What?"
"Constance, it's an overpowering melancholy."
"An overpowering melancholy?"
"Yes."
"What about?"
"About . . . myself."
"Yourself?"
"Yes. . . . Because I'm rotten."
"Because you haven't felt well the last few days?"
"Because I'm never well."
She now thought that he was exaggerating, that he was joking, that he was pessimistical, hypochondriacal; and she said:
"Why, Gerrit! . . ."
He understood that she did not believe him, that she never would believe him. He laughed:
"Yes," he said, "I've a gay old imagination, haven't I?"
"Yes, I think you're imagining things a bit."
