"Not at all well, ma'am."
"Where are the children?"
"They're in the dining-room, ma'am, playing: it's easier there for me to keep an eye on them."
Constance opened the door of the dining-room, with her arm round Emilie. She saw Gerdy and Constant; but, just as in the drawing-room at home, they had hidden behind a sofa standing aslant, where they were quietly playing at father and mother, worshipping each other like a little husband and wife, two small birds in a little nest.
"Peek-a-boo!" said Constance, mechanically.
They were quiet at first and then burst into chuckles, crept out, kissed Auntie and Emilie:
"Auntie," asked Gerdy, "is Papa ill?"
"Yes, darling."
"Will Papa get better very soon?"
"Oh, yes, dear!"
"Are we staying with you long?"
"No, not very long, darling."
And Constance did not know why, but she suddenly saw the children staying on; and this vision was mingled with a vague impression of the gloomy house at Driebergen. She thought that her brain must be very tired in her head, that she was sleeping while awake, dreaming as she moved about. Everything before her was confused: that terrible day in Paris; Henri's body; the mystery about the whole affair, with the dark, half-uttered suspicions; the
