Madame Verstraeten sat down beside her niece, Betsy van Raat. She was married to Paul’s elder brother.
“What a pity Eline is not here! I had so depended on her to fill up the long intervals with a little music. She sings so nicely.”
“She was really not feeling well, aunt. She is very sorry, you may be sure, that she can’t be here, in honour of uncle’s birthday.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“I don’t quite know. Nerves, I think.”
“She really ought not to give herself up to these fits. With a little energy she could easily get over that nervousness.”
“Well, you see, aunt, this nervousness is the modern bane of young women, it is the fin de siècle epidemic,” said Betsy, with a faint smile.
Madame Verstraeten sighed and nodded.
“By the bye,” said she, “I suppose the girls will be too tired to-morrow evening to go to the opera. Would you care to have our box?”
Betsy reflected for a moment.