1
Dolf Van Attema, in the course of an after-dinner stroll, had called on his wife’s sister, Cecile van Even, on the Scheveningen Road. He was waiting in her little boudoir, pacing up and down, among the rosewood chairs and the vieux rose moiré ottomans, over and over again, with three or four long steps, measuring the width of the tiny room. On an onyx pedestal, at the head of a sofa, burned an onyx lamp, glowing sweetly within its lace shade, a great six-petalled flower of light.
Mevrouw was still with the children, putting them to bed, the maid had told him; so he would not be able to see his godson, little Dolf, that evening. He was sorry. He would have liked to go upstairs and romp with Dolf where he lay in his little bed; but he remembered Cecile’s request and his promise on an earlier occasion, when a romp of this sort with his uncle had kept the boy awake for hours. So Dolf van Attema waited, smiling at his own obedience, measuring the little boudoir with his steps, the steps of a firmly-built man, short, broad and thick-set, no longer in his first youth, showing symptoms of baldness under his short brown hair, with small blue-grey eyes, kindly and pleasant of glance, and a mouth which was firm and determined, in spite of the smile, in the midst of the ruddy growth of his crisp Teutonic beard.
A log smouldered on the little hearth of nickel and gilt; and two little flames flickered discreetly: a fire of peaceful intimacy in that twilight atmosphere of lace-shielded lamplight. Intimacy and discreetness shed over the whole little room an aroma as of violets; a suggestion of the scent of violets nestled, too, in the soft tints of the draperies and furniture—rosewood and rose moiré—and hung about the corners of the little rosewood writing-table, with its silver appointments and its photographs under smooth glass frames. Above the writing-table hung a small white Venetian mirror. The gentle air of modest refinement, the subdued and almost prudish tenderness which floated about the little hearth, the writing-table and the sofa, gliding between the quiet folds of the faded hangings, had something soothing, something to quiet the nerves, so that Dolf presently ceased his work of measurement, sat down, looked around him and finally remained staring at the portrait of Cecile’s husband, the minister of State, dead eighteen months back.
After that he had not long to wait before Cecile came in. She advanced towards him smiling, as he rose from his seat, pressed his hand, excused herself that the children had detained her. She always put them to sleep herself, her two boys, Dolf and Christie, and then they said their prayers, one beside the other in their little beds. The scene came back to Dolf as she spoke of the children; he had often seen it.
Christie was not well, she said; he was so listless; she hoped it might not turn out to be measles.