Frans?"
"Yes, what's the matter?"
His voice sounded irritated, because she had heard him.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going out."
"At this time of night?"
"Yes. I can't sleep. I'm going for a walk."
"You're going for a walk at this hour?"
"Yes."
"Frans, you're not faithful to me!"
"Oh, rot! Not faithful to you! Go back to bed."
"Frans, I won't have you go out."
"Look here!"
"Do stay at home, Frans! Lot isn't back yet and I'm frightened, alone. Do, Frans!"
Her voice sounded like that of a pleading child.
"I want some air."
"You want … "
She did not finish her sentence, suddenly choking with anger. On the top floor—she knew it—the old servant-maid was standing with her door ajar, laughing and grinning. She knew it. She felt stifled with rage, with nervous rage; she quivered all over her body, shivering in her night-dress. The hall-door had opened and shut. Steyn was outside; and she … she was still standing on the stairs above. She clenched her fists, she panted; she could have run after him, in her night-dress; the big tears sprang from her child-eyes; but, ashamed because of the maid, she went back to her room.
She cried, cried very softly, so as not to let the maid hear, so that the maid should not have that added enjoyment. Oh, that pain, that sting, here, in her heart, a physical pain, a physical pain! No one who did not feel it as she did could know the physical pain which it gave her, the sort of pain one describes to a doctor. Where could Steyn be going? He was still so young, he still looked so well-set-up. And yet he was her husband, her husband! Oh, why had he not remained nice to her, old though she was? She never even felt the touch of his hand now! And how at one time she had felt that touch tingle through all her being! Oh, never again, never even a kiss, a kind kiss, such as old people still exchange at times!
She did not go to bed; she waited up. Would Steyn come back soon? Was that … was that he coming now? No, it was Lot: it was his key she heard, his lighter footstep.
And she opened the door:
"Lot!"
"Mummy, aren't you in bed yet?"
"No, dear. Lot, Lot, come here!"
He went into her room.
"Lot, Steyn is out."
"Out?"
"Yes, he went to his room first … and then I heard him go quietly down the stairs; then he went out of the hall-door, quietly."
"He didn't want to wake you, Mummy."
"Ah, but where has he gone to?"
"For a walk. He often does. It's very hot and close."
"Gone for a walk, Lot, gone for a walk? No, he's gone … "
She stood in front of him—he could see it by the candle-light—blazing with passion. Her little figure in the white night-dress was like that of a fury with the curly yellow hair, shot with grey, all shining; everything that was sweet in her seethed up into a raging temper, as though she were irritated to the utmost, and she felt an impulse suddenly to raise her hand and box Lot's ears with its small, quivering fingers for daring to defend Steyn. She controlled herself and controlled her wrath, but words of vulgar invective and burning reproach came foaming to her trembling lips.
"Come, Mummy, Mummy! Come!"
Lot tried to calm her. And he took her in his arms and patted her back, as one does to an excited child:
"Come, Mummy, come!"
She now burst into sobs. But he remonstrated with her gently, said that she was exaggerating, that she had been overwrought lately, that he absolutely refused to get married if she did not become calmer; and very prettily he flirted with her in this way and persuaded her to go to bed, tucked her in, shook up her pillows:
"Come, Mummy, go to sleep now and don't be silly. Let Steyn go for his walk in peace, don't think of Steyn, don't think of anything. … "
She acquiesced, under the stroke of his delicate hand on her hair, her cheek.
"Will you go to sleep now, you silly Mummy? … I say, Mummy, what a soft skin you have! … "
[1] Pronounced "Lo," as in the French "Charlot."
[2] The Witte and the Plaats are the two leading clubs at the Hague.
[3] Dutch East Indies: Java.
[4] British India.
CHAPTER II
Elly Takma was very happy and looked better than she had done for a long time. Well, thought Cousin Adèle, who had long kept house for Grandpapa Takma—she was a Takma too and unmarried—well, a first little love-romance which a girl experiences when not much over twenty and which makes her feel unhappy, an engagement broken off with a fellow who used to go and see his mistress after spending the evening with his betrothed: a romance of that sort does not influence a girl's life; and, though Elly had moped for a while, Lot Pauws was making her happy and making her look better, with a glad laugh on her lips and a bright colour in her cheeks.
Cousin Adèle—Aunt Adèle, as Elly called her, Indian-fashion—buxom, full-figured, fresh and young-looking for her age, had nothing of a poor relation employed to do the housekeeping, but was altogether the capable mistress of the house, seeing to everything, caring for nothing but the details of her household and proud of her orderly home. She had never been in India and ruled Grandpapa's house with true Dutch conscientiousness, leaving Elly entirely to her hobby of the moment; for Elly had her hobbies, which she rode until she attained absolute perfection, after which she would take up a fresh one. At eighteen, she had been a famous tennis-player, winning medals in tournaments, well-known for her exquisite, powerful and graceful play, mentioned in all the sporting-papers. After achieving perfection in tennis, she had suddenly grown bored with it, hung up her racket, studded round with the medals, by a pink ribbon in her bedroom and begun to work zealously for the Charity Organization Society, doing much practical slumming and sick-visiting; they thought highly of her in the committee. One day, however, when a sick man showed her his leg with a hole in it, she fainted and considered that she had overstepped her philanthropic limits. She resigned the work; and, feeling a certain handiness quivering at the tips of her sensitive fingers, she started making her own hats and also modelling. She was successful in both pursuits: the hats were so pretty
