. . . Meneer is quite calm now. . . . And have you been to a doctor?"
"A doctor?" said Gerrit, startled.
"A doctor," thought Paul. "Just so: we've been practical, as usual."
But he didn't say it.
They went upstairs. They found Ernst in his dressing-gown; his black hair, which he wore long, lay in tangled masses over his forehead. He did not get up; he gazed at his two brothers with a look of intense melancholy. He was now a man of forty-three, but seemed older, his hair turning grey, his appearance neglected, as though his shoulders had sunk in, as though something were broken in his spinal system. He did not appear very much surprised at seeing the two of them; only his sad eyes wandered from one to the other, scrutinizing them suspiciously.
And all at once the two brothers did not know what to say. Gerrit filled the room with his restless movements and nearly knocked down a couple of Delft jars with the skirts of his wet great-coat. Paul was the first to speak:
"Aren't you well, Ernst?"
"I'm quite well."
"Then what is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"What was the matter with you last night?"
"Nothing. I was suffocating."
