the Witte after all!” said the boy. “You’re so late!”
“No, old chap, I wouldn’t have dared do that!” cried Van der Welcke. “Ottocar—in a motor-car! I’ve been cycling my legs off and I’m tired out.”
“You’re quite red in the face.”
“Yes, I’ve had great fun! Ottocar—in his motor-car! You see, I’ve got to have my fun by myself … when you’re cooped up at school.”
“What are you saying, Father, about Ottocar?”
“Nothing, nothing, it’s a song: Ottocar in his motor-car! …”
“Well, I’m off … to meet Mamma. Good-bye, you mad old Dad!”
“Good-bye, my boy. … Come here a moment. …”
“What’s the matter now? …”
“Old chap, I feel so lonely sometimes … so terribly alone … so forlorn. … Tell me, Addie, you’ll always be your father’s chum, won’t you? … You won’t leave me, like all the rest? You’ll stay with your old father?”
“But, Daddy, what makes you so sentimental suddenly?”
“Oh, no, I’m not sentimental … but, my dear boy, I’m so awfully bored sometimes!”
“Then why don’t you find more to do, Daddy?”
“Oh, my boy, what would you have me do? … Oh, if I only had a car!”
“A car? …”
“A motor-car! Like Ottocar!”
And Van der Welcke burst out laughing:
“He at least had one!” he bellowed, amidst his laughter.
“Father, you’re mad!”
“Yes, to-day … because of that dream, those wonderful sands. … Oh, how I wish I were Ottocar! … My boy, my boy, I’m so terribly bored sometimes!”
“And just after you’ve had a jolly bicycle-ride!”
“All on my own … with my head full of all sorts of wretched thoughts! …”
“Well, to-morrow, Wednesday afternoon, we’ll go together.”
“Do you mean it? A long ride? To-morrow? To-morrow?”
“Yes, certainly, a long ride.”
“You brick! My own Addie! My boy! My boy!”
He was as grateful as a child, caught his son in his arms:
“Addie, let me give you one more hug!”
“Well, be quick about it, Father, for I must really go, or I shall be late.”
Van der Welcke put his arms round him, kissed him on both cheeks, and flew upstairs. He undressed, flung his clothes to right and left, washed his face in a huge basin of water, shaved quickly, dressed himself neatly. He did all this with much fuss and rushing about, as though his toilet was a most important affair. Then he went downstairs. The table was laid. It was nearly seven. Constance would be there in no time. And, sitting down in the drawing-room with a cigarette, looking round the room—Constance’ room all over, in which he sat as a stranger—he hummed, while he waited for his wife and his son:
“And Ottocar had a motor-car; but I—have—none! …”
Chapter III
Addie ran up the stairs to the platform just as the train from Paris steamed in. He hurried along, looking into the windows. … There was Mamma, there was Mamma! And he flung himself on the handle, pulled open the door, helped Constance to alight.
“Ah!” he said. “There you are! There you are at last!”
She laughed, kissed him, her handsome, sturdy boy:
“My boy, how could I do so long without you?”
“Ah, so you see! You’re surprised at it yourself! Come, make haste, I’ve got a cab. Give me your luggage-ticket.”
He swept her along; and, in the cab, while they were waiting for the luggage:
“Tell me, Addie,” she said, “is there really no money left?”
“Do you imagine that, when you go spending seven weeks at Nice, in a first-class hotel, there’ll still be money?”
“I never thought of it like that,” she said meekly.
He laughed, thought her tremendously amusing. She laughed too, they both bubbled with mirth, Constance glad at seeing him, at finding him looking so well and in such good spirits.
“Mamma, you’re hopeless!” he exclaimed. “Did you really never think that there was no money left?”
“No,” said Constance, humbly.
And they both started laughing again. He shook his head, considered her incorrigible:
“And I’ve got some bills too, for the things you bought when you went away.”
“Oh, yes!” she said, remembering. “But they can wait.”
“I told them that you were abroad and that they’d have to wait.”
“Of course,” said she.
And they arrived in the Kerkhoflaan in excellent spirits.
“Well, Truitje, have you looked after the master and Master Addie nicely?”
“I did the best I could, ma’am. … But it’s just as well you’re back again. …”
“Well, Constance?”
“Well, Henri?”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes.”
“You’re looking well.”
“Thanks. … Oh, have you waited dinner for me?”
“Well, of course!”
“I’ll go and wash my hands and I’ll be down immediately.”
“Mamma never thought for a moment … that there was no money left,” said Addie.
“Nonsense!” said Van der Welcke.
But he seemed to consider it quite natural; and, when Constance came downstairs, he said, laughing:
“Didn’t you think that there was no money left?”
Constance glanced up, imagining that he meant to make a scene. But he was smiling; and his question sounded good-humoured.
“No!” she said, as if it was only natural.
And now they all went into fits of laughter, Addie with his silent convulsions, which made him shake up and down painfully.
“Do laugh right out, boy!” said Van der Welcke, teasing him. “Do laugh right out, if you can.”
They were very gay as they sat down to dinner.
“And just guess,” said Constance, “whom I met in the hotel at Nice, whom I sat next to at the table d’hôte: the d’Azignys, from Rome. … The first people I met, the d’Azignys. It’s incredible how small the world is, how small, how small!”
He also remembered the d’Azignys: the French ambassador at Rome and his wife … fifteen years ago now. …
“Really?”