They noticed in the shadow of a balcony a number of dark outlined figures, who appeared to be waving handkerchiefs, and they all returned the signal, whilst Etienne shouted “Hurrah.”
“Come, let us make haste now,” said Théodore, “or we shall never get as far as the big tree.”
Eline spoke English fairly well, and with her Howard got on the best. He engaged her in a lively conversation, whilst Eline on Otto’s arm, in the shade of her parasol, which he held, laughingly replied to him. And Eline herself wondered how it was that without the least effort she made an agreeable impression upon every man with whom she came in contact, whilst the sympathies of those of her own sex she could only succeed in enlisting by dint of exercising all the arts of her loving affection.
Through her conversation, full of cheerful banter, the thought flashed like lightning—Madame van Erlevoort cared for her only on account of Otto; Cathérine liked her out of light-heartedness, but their sympathy was not firmly rooted in affection; with old Madame van Raat, with little Cateau, with Tina, it was otherwise. And with a smile she leant heavier on Otto; what cared she for all of them? his love well repaid her for what she missed in others, his love was her wealth, and for the sympathy of others she cared nothing.
To the big tree it was a good half-hour’s walk. The road bent through the golden corn-fields, along hedges pink with blossom, by the side of hilly pine-copses, fragrant with pungent odours, whose dark, sombre foliage afforded a grateful shade from the brilliant sun-rays.
Suddenly, at a bend of the road, the little village of Horze was revealed as a surprise to the eyes of the party; a few cottages, a baker’s shop, a minister’s house, an inn, some stables, all scattered around a little church; and Eline glanced round wonderingly—she did not see the village, she said.
“But here it is—there—that is the village,” said Otto.
“What! That house and a half?” asked Eline, her eyes big with surprise. [[195]]
They all laughed, and Etienne asked her if she had expected to find a sort of Nice or Biarritz.
“At least something like Scheveningen, with a Kurhaus—eh, Elly? I say, Elly, do you know the difference yet between rye and oats?”