den as much
as possible of the world from his wife, holding that a woman, whatever
her age, need not know, need not read, need not discuss, need not
reflect upon all those things which, far removed from the two of them,
were sin: sin such as their son had committed....

Van der Welcke now for the first time fully realized how grievous the
shock of the scandal must have been to both of them, years ago. He,
young though he was and but lately emancipated from his parents, had at
once lost so much of those strict principles in his life in Rome, in his
contact with women of the world, in his polished drawing-room talk on
soul-weariness with Constance; and he now for the first time fully
understood why they had not wished to see the two of them and why years
had to elapse before there could be any question of forgiveness. And,
however much he had longed for his father, in Brussels, he now felt that
this longing was an illusion; that his father was a stranger to him now
and he a stranger to his father: two strangers to each other, whom only
a remembrance of former days had brought together again. And, curiously,
though, as a child, he had liked his father better than his mother, his
love now seemed to turn more to his mother, who had never become a
stranger, who had always remained the mother, silently reading her
forbidden book, longing simply for her child, to whom the voices had
sent her....

"But, just as my father would never have spoken out to me, no more would
I ever have gone bicycling with my father?" thought Van der Welcke, as
he darted with Addie along the smooth roads towards the Zeist Woods.

They were like two brothers, an elder and a younger brother, neither of
them tall, but both fairly broad, both with something delicate and
high-bred and yet something powerful in their build--Van der Welcke was
young still and slender for his nine-and-thirty years--and both, under
the same sort of cap, had the same face, the same steel-blue eyes, the
same straight profile, with its short nose, well-formed mouth and broad
chin, though one was a man and the other a boy. They pedalled and
pedalled and devoured the roads on that scorching August morning,
talking gaily like two friends.

"Let's stop here, Addie, and take a rest," said Van der Welcke, at
length, out of breath.

They alighted, leant their machines against a couple of trees, flung
themselves on the mound of needles under the fir-trees, which rose
silently and p