Lamp and fire would make things no brighter around him, now that the great twilight was descending. . . . Oh, the great inexorable, pitiless twilight! Would it fall around him as it had fallen around Ernst . . . around whom it was now slowly clearing? Did the twilight clear again? Or would the shadows around him gradually deepen into darkness, the darkness that was now gathering around his mother? Or would it just remain dim around him, with the same wan light that glimmered around Paul and Dorine? What, what would their twilight be? . . .
The house was very cold and he felt chilly. Was there no fire anywhere? Where were the children? Were Marietje and Adèletje and the two boys not back from school yet? . . . He now heard Gerdy and Constant playing in the room downstairs—the nursery and dining-room—heard them talking together with their dear little voices. . . . Oh, his two sunny-haired darlings! . . . But Gerdy was afraid of him. . . . He was becoming afraid of himself. . . . He was no longer the man he used to be. . . . People now saw him as he was. . . . He could no longer put on that air of brute strength. . . . His voice had lost its blustering force. . . .
He did not know why, but he roamed through the house. . . . It struck him as lonely, dreary and quiet, though the children were playing below. . . . He stood on the stairs and listened. What was
