She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:
“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”
She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.
“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.
“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”
“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.
He took courage and explained:
“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”
“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”
“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.