“Miss Vere, pray tell me the truth. Are you in the habit of taking other medicines than those which I prescribe?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Answer me the truth, Miss Vere.”
“Of course not. How can you think such a thing? I should not have the courage to do so. No, no, you may rest quite assured about that.”
Reyer left, and in his carriage he forgot his note-book for a moment, and was deep in thought about Miss Vere. Then he heaved a hopeless sigh. Scarcely had he left the room when Eline rose. She was dressed only in a loose gray peignoir, which hung about her emaciated figure. In front of the glass, she plunged her hands in her loose hair. It had grown very thin, and she laughed about it while the stray locks fell about her fingers. Then she flung herself on the floor.
“I won’t,” she stammered, “I will not see him any more, that Reyer. He makes me worse than I am. I cannot bear him any longer. I shall write him to stay away.”
But she did not feel sufficient energy to do so, and she remained lying on the floor, and her fingers traced the figures of the carpet. Softly she began to hum to herself. Through the door the sun cast a square golden glimmer on the floor, and thousands of little dust particles danced about in the golden light. The glitter irritated Eline, and she drew herself back.
“Oh, that sun!” she whispered, with strange, big, dull eyes. “I hate that sun. ’Tis rain and wind that I want—cold rain and cold wind—the rain that oozes through on my chest, through my black tulle dress.”
Suddenly she rose, and wrung her hands on her chest as though she would prevent the wind from blowing open the cloak from her shoulders.
“Jeanne! Jeanne!” she commenced in her delirium; “pray, pray take me in. I have run away from Betsy, for she is unbearable. This evening, at the dinner at Hovel’s, she said all kinds of nasty things about Vincent, and you know that I love Vincent; for his sake I have broken my engagement, my engagement with Otto. Oh, how he bored me with his eternal calmness, always calm—always calm! I—I shall go mad under all that calmness; but [[308]]really, Henk, I shall go to Lawrence and ask his pardon. But don’t strike me, Henk! Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, I love you so! Do not be angry with me, Lawrence; see if I do not love you! Here is your portrait which I always wear on my bosom.”