The Eekhofs and the Hydrechts were seated at a little table close to the band-stand, when Betsy, Eline, Otto, and Henk passed one by one through the turnstile. They never saw them, however, and walked on, Otto’s hand resting on Eline’s arm.
“Look, there are the van Raats, and Miss Vere, with Erlevoort!” said young Hydrecht. “They are here every evening lately.”
“How ridiculously plain Eline dresses just now!” remarked Léonie. “What is the meaning of that, I wonder? Nothing but affectation. And just fancy—a bonnet and veil! Every engaged girl thinks she must wear a bonnet and veil. Ridiculous!”
“But they are a nice pair,” said Madame Eekhof. “There are less suitable matches.”
“Anyhow, they walk decently,” said Ange. “Sometimes those engaged couples make themselves ridiculous—Marguerite van Laren, for instance, who is always brushing the dust off her intended’s coat.”
Betsy meanwhile, bowing and smiling right and left, thought they had better not walk about any more, but look for a table somewhere.
Fortunately it was pleasant everywhere; it was even desirable to sit at some distance from the band-stand, otherwise the noise would have been too great. So they sat down at a little distance, at the side of the Conversatie-zaal, where there were still several tables unoccupied, but from where they could see and be seen.
It was a constant interchange of nods and smiles, and Betsy and Eline now and again whispered amusedly when they caught sight of some absurd toilette or ridiculous hat. Eline herself was very satisfied at the simplicity with which, ever since her engagement, she had dressed herself; a simplicity which, elegant though it still was, was in too great contrast with her former luxurious toilettes not to be much remarked. That simplicity, she thought, brought out her captivating beauty in a sort of plastic relief, and [[163]]modelled her slender form as though it were a marble statue. In her eyes it veiled her former frivolousness as with a film of graceful seriousness, a seriousness which to Otto, with his native simplicity, must be most attractive.
She could not help being as she was; she felt it difficult to be nothing but herself; but, on the other hand, it was easy for her to imagine herself playing one or another part: this time it was that of the somewhat affected but ever-charming and happy fiancée of a manly young fellow, one of her own circle, who was liked everywhere for his unaffected pleasantness. Yes; she was happy—she felt it, with all the delight of a satisfied longing in her heart, which had so long craved for happiness; she was happy in the peace and calm which his great, silent love—which she guessed at rather than understood—had given her; she was happy in the blue stillness of that limpid lake, that Nirvana into which her fantasy-burdened soul had glided as into a bed of down. So happy was she, even to her very nerves, which were as loosened chords after their long-continued tension, that often she felt a tear of intense gratefulness rise to her eye. The stream of people passed by her incessantly, and began to whirl a little before her eyes, so that once or twice she did not return their greetings.
“Eline, why don’t you bow? Can’t you see Madame van der Stoor and little Cateau?” whispered Betsy reproachingly.