She heard the shrill whistle of the engine, and the lights that glimmered through the mist grew in number at every moment. She was approaching the Hague slowly. She rose, arranged her hat and her veil, placed her book and her scent-bottle in her leather satchel, and sat waiting, looking somewhat thin and worn, her face sallow and emaciated, her eyes dull and sunk deep within their sockets. She sat waiting until the train glided into the station and came to a stop.
Her heart beat and the tears glistened on her lashes. Through the steam-covered glass, in the dull glow of the gas-lights, she could see the busy turmoil of the station, and she heard the loud voices of the guard calling out—
“Hague, Hague!”
The carriage-door was opened; she rose, her portmanteau, her rug and sunshades in her hand. Amid the rushing to and fro of the travellers her eyes sought Paul; she knew that he was coming to fetch her, and she gave a sudden start when she saw a familiar burly form make his way through the crowd and approach her.
“Henk!” she cried.
He helped her out and she nearly fell into his arms, while Paul, who followed him, relieved her of her luggage.
“Elly—my child! Elly, dearest!” said Henk in a choking voice, and gently he kissed her, while she lay her sobbing head on his shoulder. She scarcely heard Paul’s greeting, and quite mechanically she held out her hand to him. A wild sob escaped her. But Henk still spoke on, he took her arm and led her to the front of the station where his carriage was waiting. She let him lead her, full of undefined thoughts, full of a vague sadness, and she leant on his hand and stepped into the carriage.
“We shall wait for Paul a moment,” said Henk, who took his place beside her.
She did not answer, but lay back in the cushions and covered her head with her hand.
“I did not expect to see you, Henk; it’s very kind of you, very kind indeed,” she at last was able to say. He gently pressed her hand, and leaned his head out of the window. Paul was approaching.