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Rh what a sweet child she was! What a sweet, pretty child! Twenty years ago: why, it’s an age! She must have grown old! Yes, of course she must: she must have grown old! How old is she? It’s easy to reckon: she must be forty-two, eh? And Van der Welcke is a nice fellow, what? Very decent of him, I’m bound to say, very decent. . . .”

Mamma van Lowe turned very white; Dorine gave an angry look; Toetie Ruyvenaer pulled Papa’s sleeve:

“Allah, that Papa!” she whispered, good-naturedly, to her sister Dotje. “No tact. . . .”

“Ye-es,” Aunt Ruyvenaer began in a fat, slow voice, “was it so long ago? Kassian!” she added, sympathetically. “Poor Constance! I’m so glad I’m going to see her!”

“Papa!” said Poppie Ruyvenaer, the youngest.

“What is it?”

“How can you?”

“What?”

“You’re upsetting Aunt Marie: don’t you see?”

“But, good Lord. . . !”

“Oh, do stop about Constance.”

“What have I said? . . .”

“If you don’t stop, you’ll make Aunt Marie cry. Don’t you understand? . . .”

“Oh, mustn’t I talk about Constance? There’s always something in our family one mustn’t talk about. . . . It’s beyond me!”

And Uncle began to stride up and down the