"A new papa!" repeated Frieda.
Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful, laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend.
Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake of the head, she continued:
"Really, do you not understand yet?"
"No," replied Johannes, in all seriousness. "Who is the new papa?"
"There he goes," said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his direction.
"Fie, children! Do not point," said Mevrouw.
And Johannes began to comprehend—much as one does who has fallen out of a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and that he could possibly survive it.
The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the houses, the white figures—everything reeled and whirled, and then grew altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go.
As he stood up, he heard the words: "How pale you are!" That was the last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his ears.