“Now, child? You see I am busy, and there is my hat.”
“But Peter!” she replied, a flash of something like indignation sparkling in her eyes, as she continued in a voice pervaded with a slightly perceptible tone of complaint: “We haven’t said anything to each other to-day. My heart is so full, and what I would fain say to you is, must surely—”
“When I come home Maria, not now,” he interrupted, his deep voice sounding half impatient, half beseeching. “First the city and the country—then love-making.”
At these words, Maria raised her head proudly, and answered with quivering lips:
“That is what you have said ever since the first day of our marriage.”
“And unhappily—unhappily—I must continue to say so until we reach the goal,” he answered firmly. The blood mounted into the young wife’s delicate cheeks, and with quickened breathing, she answered in a hasty, resolute tone:
“Yes, indeed, I have known these words ever since your courtship, and as I am my father’s daughter never opposed them, but now they are no longer suited to us, and should be: ‘Everything for the country, and nothing at all for the wife.’”
Van der Werff laid down his pen and turned full towards her.
Maria’s slender figure seemed to have grown taller, and the blue eyes, swimming in tears, flashed proudly. This life-companion seemed to have been created by God especially for him. His heart opened to her, and frankly stretching out both hands, he said tenderly:
“You know how matters are! This heart is changeless, and other days will come.”