2
The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.
“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”
He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:
“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”
“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”
“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is to that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”
She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.
“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.
“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”
His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.
“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.
“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”
The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:
“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”
“They both resemble their father,” she replied.
It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.
But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.
“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.
“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”
“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”
She gave a little laugh.
“Of course,” he said.
“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”
“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”
She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:
“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”
She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say, to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.
“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”
“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”
She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.
“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”
And he pointed to the books.
“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”
She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him?
“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”
“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.
“Yes.”
His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.
“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.
“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”
“No....”
“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”
She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.
Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.
“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”
“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”
“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.
He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:
“Ah, here they are!”
Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.
“And you, Anna?”
“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”
“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.
Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.
“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”
“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.
“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.
“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.
Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.
“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.
Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”
“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.
But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.