ready a little
annoyed, flared up at once:

"Fighting? Fighting? What about, Addie? There's always something with
the three boys."

"Oh, nothing!" said Addie, evasively.

"Come," said Van der Welcke, "all boys have a fight now and again."

But Addie did not speak, remained stiff and silent. He did not answer,
would not say why he had fought with Jaap. And he was reasonable, tried
to eat something, so as not to upset his mother; but the food stuck in
his throat. They hurried through dinner. When Addie was gloomy,
everything was gloomy, there was nothing left, life was not worth the
dismal living, Constance' new and gentle happiness was gone, gone....

"Shall we go and bicycle a bit, my boy?" asked Van der Welcke. "Or are
you tired?"

"Yes, I'm tired."

"Remember, Addie," said Constance, coldly, "that we are going to
Grandmamma's and that you have to change."

"Yes."

He got up, went upstairs, to his boy's room, not knowing what to say
next, what to do with himself, where to sit, what book to take up; he
remained standing, aimlessly, in the middle of the room, with that
bottled-up sorrow of a whole afternoon lying heavy on his chest and
lungs: that sorrow which he had dragged with Frans and the Hijdrechts to
Scheveningen, quietly, without sobbing, amid that bustling crowd of
Sunday visitors.

He stood there, aimlessly, dejected, when the door opened and Van der
Welcke entered:

"Come, Addie, my boy, tell your father. What is it?"

"Papa," he began, yearning now, burning to know....

But he could not go on. It was his first sorrow and it was so heavy, so
oppressively heavy.

"Come, my lad, what's the matter?"

"Papa...."

"Tell me, come on, tell me."

"Papa, am I not...."

"What, Addie?"

"Papa, am I not your child?"

Van der Welcke looked at him in astonishment:

"What's that?" he asked and did not understand.

"No, I'm not, am I? Yes, I know now!"

"Look here, Addie, what's the matter with you?"

"I'm not your child, am I?"

"You're not my child? What do you mean?"

"I'm the child of an Italian, am I not?"

"Of an Italian?"

"And that's why they call me the Italian?"

Van der Welcke, in his amazement, did not know what to say. He stared at
Addie; and his silence meant confession to Addie.

"I am Mamma's child, am I not, but not yours? I am the child of an
Italian...."

"My boy, who told you that?"

"Jaap."

"But, Addie, it's not true!"

"Oh, you only say that it's not tru