Mrs. Kontorompa’s irritation vanished instantly.
“Oh, Katya, dear, I have just been speaking to your father on the telephone. He said....”
“I know what he said,” interrupted her daughter. “He said no. He always does say no. But I warn you, mamma, I’m just about at the end of my patience, and either to-day or to-morrow I shall ... well, I shall do something desperate.”
Mrs. Kontorompa’s most benevolent face assumed a look of anxiety.
“But what can I do?” she asked, despairingly.
“Nothing, dear mamma. We have always known—you and I—that you could do nothing. It’s not your fault. But papa is so stupid, is it not so? Why, in the name of God, he sent me....”
“Katya, you must not swear. Besides, you have promised me not to.”
“Very well, mamma, I won’t. Why, in the name of respectability then, he sent me to Brussels—Brussels, of all places—I can’t understand.”
Her luminous blue eyes, deep and tender, formed large patches of colour above her very pale cheeks, and her pouting red lips, half smiling, concealed her regularly irregular white teeth.
“Your father, Katya, dear—well, you know what your father is. He blunders, but he means well. He thought Brussels would be good for you.”