he
boys.

"Why shouldn't I, if I want to?" asked Piet Saetzema.

"Because it's ill-bred," said Marianne, angrily.

"Oh, indeed? It's you that's ill-bred."

"And you're a boor!" cried Marianne, losing her temper.

"Marianne!" said her sister Emilie, soothingly.

"It's those horrid boys of Aunt Adolphine's!" muttered Marianne, in her
indignation.

"Then don't take any notice of them."

"Here comes Aunt Constance...."

Mrs. van Lowe had gone to meet her daughter in the passage; she embraced
her there. The door was open; the brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces
looked out and at once began to talk busily to one another, in
artificial tones. Then Mamma came in, leading Constance by the hand. On
her face was a smile of quiet content, but she was trembling with
nervousness. She remained standing for a moment, looking through the
crowded room. Constance van der Welcke, holding her mother's hand, also
stopped. She was still a pretty woman, very pale, with hair beginning to
go grey around her young and charming face, in which the dark eyes
loomed big with anxiety; she still had the figure of a young woman; and
she wore a black-satin gown.... There was a wait of a few seconds at the
door, a pause just perceptible, yet poignant, as though a stubborn
situation were being forced into the easier groove of polite manners and
kind words, because of this sister's home-coming. But then Bertha came
up and smiled, and found the kind word and the polite manner. She kissed
her younger sister, said something charming. Mrs. van Lowe beamed. The
other sisters and brothers followed, the nephews, the nieces. At last,
one by one, they had all welcomed her. Constance had kissed them, or
shaken hands; and she was deathly pale; and her black eyes trembled,
misty with tears. Her voice broke, her hands shook, she felt a sinking
at her knees. A passion of weeping was rising to her eyes; and she found
it almost impossible to control herself. She kept hold of her mother's
hand, like a child, sat down by her, tried to smile and to behave
normally. Her words almost choked her; her breath throttled her. Her
black eyes started from their sockets, quivering, in her deathly-pale
face, and she shivered as though in a fever. She tried to do her best,
to talk as though she had only been away a year. But it was no use. She
had not set foot in those rooms since the day, twenty years ago, when
she married De Staffelaer, the Dutch envoy at Rome.... Since then,