The girl rose from her chair in the grey light of the little room. She was tall and pale and, in that light, seemed suddenly to blossom up like a lily of sorrow, with the white head drooping at the neck, a little on one side. The very fair hair hung limply about the temples. It was heavy—her only attraction—and was wrung into a heavy knot which she wore low at her neck. The movements of her long arms, of her long, thin hands betrayed a listless, lingering anæmia; and her blouse hung in folds over her flat bosom. She was twenty-six, but looked younger; her lacklustre eyes were innocent of all passion, as though she were incapable of ever becoming a woman, as though her senses were dying away like some fading lily on its bending stalk.
"Good-morning, Auntie."
The little room was grey and white as a nun's cell, with the cloistered simplicity of a hermitage.
"I'm so glad to see you, Marietje."
"Auntie, Mamma said that you and Uncle...."
"Yes, Marietje, we'll be glad to have you with us. Mamma has told you, hasn't she?... Then Addie can...."
"It's very kind of you, Auntie. But ... but I would rather not come."
"What do you mean, dear?"
"I would rather stay here.... There's not much about me to cure; and I'm not anxious to be cured. And in your house...."
"Well?"