Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.

In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went to glance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.

There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Greta entered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?

Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.

What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?

But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....

“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.

Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.

The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.

“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”

He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:

“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”

“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”

“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is to that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”

She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.

“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.

“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”

His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.

“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.

“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”

The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:

“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”

“They both resemble their father,” she replied.

It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.

But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.

“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.

“Possibly,” she said.

“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”

“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”

She gave a little laugh.

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”

“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”

She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:

“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”

She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say, to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.

“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”

“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”

She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.

“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”

And he pointed to the books.

“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”

She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him?

“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”

“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.

“Yes.”

His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.

“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”

“Do you know Emerson?”

“No....”

“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”

She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.

Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.

“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”

“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”

“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.

He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:

“Ah, here they are!”

AmÉlie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.

“And you, Anna?”

“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”

“Ah, it’s a gift!” said AmÉlie, with a far-away look.

Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.

“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”

“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.

“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.

“Jules, Jules!” cried AmÉlie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.

Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.

“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried AmÉlie.

Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”

Cecile watched him:

“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.

But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.

“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked AmÉlie.

“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”

“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.

“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”

“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”

Suzette chattered on; there was no restraining Suzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.

Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.

“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.

“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”

Jules could control himself no longer:

“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.

Cecile looked at him, but, before AmÉlie could interpose, he continued:

“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”

“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.

“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”

His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:

“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”

He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. AmÉlie was trembling in every nerve:

Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”

“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”

She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.

“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.

She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant; but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.

Then she laughed:

“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”

Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But AmÉlie’s nerves were still quivering.

“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.

“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”

AmÉlie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?

“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”

She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:

“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”

She was silent, seeking, groping.

“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learns nothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”

She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.

“Ah,” said AmÉlie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”

She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.

“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.

But AmÉlie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.

“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.

She had followed AmÉlie out and now threw her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed AmÉlie’s head against her shoulder.

“How do I know what it is?” AmÉlie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”

“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.

“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any great sorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”

She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. AmÉlie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.

“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”

“Why, of course I do, Amy!”

“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much to be grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”

“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”

“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”

Cecile smiled and nodded. AmÉlie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly AmÉlie started:

“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”

Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:

“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”

They went back to the boudoir:

“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said AmÉlie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.

“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.

“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.