Arrived in the hall, Eline experienced the uncomfortable feeling of having been an unwelcome visitor to her sister. All the evening, giving herself up entirely to a fit of indolence, she had been in solitude, and now she longed for company. For a moment she stood undecided in the dark corridor, and then carefully feeling her way she descended the stairs and entered the breakfast-room.
Henk, divested of his coat, stood by the mantelpiece in his shirt-sleeves, preparing his grog, by way of night-cap, and the hot fumes of the liquor filled the room.
“Hallo, girl, is that you?” he said, in a jovial tone, whilst in his sleepy blue-gray eyes and about his heavily fair-bearded mouth [[11]]there played a good-humoured smile. “Did you not feel terribly bored, left to yourself all the evening?”
“Yes; just a little. Perhaps you did even more?” she asked with a pleasant smile.
“I? Not at all. The tableaux were very pretty.”
Then with his back leaning against the mantelpiece he began sipping his grog.
“Has the youngster been good?”
“Yes; he has been asleep. Are you not going to bed?”
“I just want to look at the papers. But why are you still up?”
“Oh—just because——” With a languid, graceful movement she stretched her arms, and then twisted her heavy locks into a glossy brown coil. She felt the need to speak to him without constraint, but the words would not come, and not the faintest thought could she conjure up to take shape within her dreamy mind. Gladly would she have burst into tears, not because of any poignant sorrow, but for the mere longing of hearing his deep solacing tones in comforting her. But she could find no words to give expression to her feelings, and again she stretched forth her arms in languid grace.