She opened the case; in it there was a hairpin in the shape of a diamond spider.
“But, Henk,” she cried, “how you spoil me! I remember, when I saw it at van Kempen’s a little while ago, I said I thought it very pretty. I really must be careful what I say in future,” she said, almost shyly, and she thought of the Bucchi fan.
“Betsy kept her ears open when she heard you speak about the pin,” he answered. “We are always glad to give you something that will please you.”
This almost aggravated her, but she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
“Really, really, you are spoiling me,” she stammered.
“Come, come, that’s all rubbish!” he exclaimed. “But now I must be off for a little ride; so make haste down-stairs, old girl, or I shall carry you down.”
“No, no, that you won’t!”
“All right then; but hurry up.”
“Yes, yes, in a moment; but no nonsense, Henk, do you hear?” she cried, frightened, and in a serious, commanding tone, for she could foresee an attack of practical joking, and she certainly felt in no humour to tolerate it.
He laughingly re-assured her. The words were on his lips to urge her to a reconciliation with his wife, but he feared he had not the tact to approach the subject with sufficient caution. She might fly up in a passion, and besides—it would all come right soon, he thought, and left the room.