“Of course not, my boy.”
Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to say that he knew better:
“You see! Taco’s a good fellow.”
He turned his footstool round towards Quaerts and laid his head against his knee.
“Jules!”
“Pray let him be, mevrouw.”
“Every one spoils that boy....”
“Except yourself,” said Jules.
“I! I!” cried Amélie, indignantly. “I spoil you out and out! I wish I knew how not to give way to you! I wish I could send you to Kampen or Deli![1] That would make a man of you! But I can’t do it by myself; and your father spoils you too.... I can’t think what’s going to become of you!”
“What is going to become of you, Jules?” asked Quaerts.