the hall, Dorine met her round-faced sister-in-law staring at her with startled eyes like an owl's. Cateau asked, in a slow, whining voice that emphasized every third or fourth word:
"Oh, Do-rine … are you re-ally … staying to din-ner?"
"No, thanks, Cateau; it's very kind of you, but I must change my things. They're all coming this evening, to Mamma's."
"Oh, are they all … com-ing?"
"Yes. … And I am so glad. … Well, don't let me keep you. Karel will tell you all about it. So good-bye, till later. … "
She hurried away; Sientje let her out, severely.
Karel and Cateau sat down to dinner. They had no children; they were now living in the Hague, after many years spent in a pretty village in Utrecht, where Karel had been burgomaster. They had a large and handsome house in the Oranjestraat; they kept three servants; they kept a carriage. They loved good fare and took their meals by themselves, just the two of them; they never entertained: there were no small dinners, for relations, nor dinner-parties, for friends. They lived according to the rules of opulent respectability. Everything in their large house, with its heavy, comfortable furniture, was solid and respectable, in no wise luxurious. They both looked healthy and opulent and Dutch and respectable. Cateau was a heavy woman of forty, with a pair of startled round eyes in a round face, and she always wore a neat, smooth, well-fitting dress, brown, black or blue. They lived by the clock: in the morning, Karel took a walk, always the same walk, through the Woods; after lunch, Cateau did her shopping; once a week, they paid a round of visits together; and that was the only time when they went out together. They were always at home in the evening, except on Sundays, when they went to Mamma van Lowe's. Notwithstanding their comfortable life, their three servants and their carriage, they were thrifty. They considered it a sin and a shame to spend money on a theatre, an exhibition, or a book. Every spring and autumn, they bought what they needed for their house and wardrobe, so as to have everything good and nice; but that was all. Their one vice was their table. They lived exceedingly well, but kept the fact from the family and always said that they lived so very simply that they could never ask an unexpected visitor to stay. And, as they never invited anybody, the secret of their dainty table did not leak out. They had a first-rate cook and Cateau kept a tight rein upon her, telling her that meneer was so particular. But they both feasted, daily. And, at their meals, they would exchange a glance of intelligence, as though relishing some voluptuous moment of mutual gratification, because everything was so good. Softly smacking their lips, they drank a good glass of good red wine. And then, at dessert, Karel's face beamed fiery red and Cateau blinked her eyes, as though tickled to her marrow. Then they went into the sitting-room and sat down at the round table, with their hands folded in their laps, to digest in silence. Karel, for appearance' sake, would undo the parcel from the circulating library. Now and again, they looked at each other, reflecting complacently that Anna had cooked that dinner beautifully. But, as they considered that this enjoyment was sinful and, above all, un-Dutch, they never spoke of their enjoyment and enjoyed in silence.
This evening, they reckoned out that they had quite an hour left in which to digest their dinner by the big stove; and, as they did not like Mamma's tea, they had a cup of tea at home. At eight o'clock, Sientje came to say that the brougham was at the door. So as not to let the brougham wait longer than necessary in the rain and spoil, they got up at once, put on cloak and great-coat and started. They did not so much mind if the horse got wet, for the horse was jobbed; but the brougham was their own.
CHAPTER II
Dorine van Lowe lived by herself in a boarding-house, though old Mrs. van Lowe had a large house in the Alexanderstraat. Their friends all thought this odd; and Dorine was a little perplexed at having constantly to explain that she would have liked nothing better than to live with Mamma and keep house for Mamma and look after Mamma and spoil Mamma. But, as a girl of twenty-two, she had left home to become a nurse; and, when she found that she had mistaken her vocation, Mamma had refused to let her come back. But surely, Mamma, who was so fond of gathering all her children round her, the friends would say. Yes, that was so, said Dorine: Mamma doted on her brood; and yet she preferred to be alone in her big house, she preferred to do her housekeeping herself and did not care to have any one staying with her or fussing about her. … No, it was better that Dorine should stop in her boarding-house. Mamma was still so active, saw to everything, knew about everything. Dorine would have been of no use to her at home. … Besides, Mamma herself wouldn't hear of it, and used to say, laughingly, but quite in earnest:
"Those who go away can stay away. … "
And the Van Lowes' friends thought it odd, for the old lady was known for just that motherly quality of hers, for loving to keep all her children round her, in a close family-circle, at the Hague or in the immediate neighbourhood. And she did not look at all a difficult old lady, with her gentle, refined old face of a waxy pallor and her smooth grey hair; not at all a managing old dame who could not possibly live in the same house with her unmarried daughter. And so Dorine was always a little perplexed at having to explain, especially as she herself thought it odd of Mamma. But Mamma was what she was; and it couldn't be helped. …
Dorine felt less tired after she had had some dinner and changed her clothes; and she put on her goloshes and went on to Mamma's at once. The rawness of the March evening bore down on the deserted Javastraat with a shudder of dripping fog. It had rained all day; and now the heavy grey sky was blotted from sight in a mist that clung in masses of woolly dampness to the roofs and tree-tops; the wind whistled from the north-west and skimmed over the rippling puddles; the trees dripped as heavily as though it were still raining; and the pale-yellow light in the clouded street-lamps shimmered down upon the street. Hardly any one was out of doors so early after dinner; a man, carrying a parcel, left a shop and shuffled close to the houses, with wide, hurrying legs.
Dorine tripped across the puddles in her goloshes, hugging herself in her old-fashioned, long fur cloak. And she talked to herself and muttered out loud. She grumbled at the rain, grumbled at all the trouble which Mamma had given her that day, sending her to all the brothers and sisters, for Constance' sake. … And you'd see, Constance wouldn't even be grateful to her, Constance would think it only natural. … Every one always thought it only natural, that Dorine should run about for the family; and no one was ever really grateful. … Every one was selfish, Mamma included. … Well, she would try it herself one day, being selfish … and sit all day long by her fire, as Karel always did … and live only for herself, for her own pleasure … and leave them all to their fate. … Just imagine, supposing, to-morrow, she were to say to Bertha and Adolphine, whose girls were soon to be married, that she had no time to go on everybody's errands. … It was always Dorine: Dorine could do it all; Dorine didn't mind the rain; Dorine had to be in the Veenestraat anyhow. … Running about, running about, running about, without stopping, all out of sheer, silly good-nature; and who thanked her for it? Nobody! Not Mamma, nor Bertha, nor Adolphine. … It was all taken as a matter of course! Well, she would like to see their faces to-morrow, if she said, "I've no time, you know;" or "I'm staying at home to-day;" or, "I'm feeling rather tired." Dorine feeling tired! What next!
Still grumbling, she rang the bell at Mamma's, in the Alexanderstraat; she took off her things in the hall. And now she emerged from her long cloak, a lean and wiry little woman of thirty-five, with a thin and sallow face, her breast shrunk within a painfully tight, dark-silk blouse; her dull, mud-coloured hair drawn tightly from her forehead into a knot at the back; very thin, with no hips, with not a single rounded line and with those dark eyes of the Van Lowes, which in her were bright and intelligent, but with an odd sort of silent reproach and secret discontent at the back of them, as though brooding under her glance. Withal she had retained something very young and girlish, something innocent and gay and lively. While pulling off her gloves, she spoke pleasantly to the servant, made a playful remark about the wet weather. She felt her hair, to see if it was smooth and drawn back properly, and tripped up the stairs with a swinging gait, her shoulders bobbing up and down, her legs wide apart. There was now something quite young and unconstrained