“Yes; you champion him even before he is attacked!” resumed Ferelyn smiling, as he filled her glass; “but thus much I can see already, that he is a spoilt pet of the ladies, not only of his sisters, but also of Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.”
Betsy joined in the conversation with Eline and Georges, feeling attracted by the latter’s lively manner, as he chatted away, skimming over all sorts of subjects; a conversation without substance, without actual wit, but light as foam, airy as soap-bubbles, sparkling as firework crackers. In such a conversation she was in her element; serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too burdensome for her; but this tintinnabulation of sparks and foam-flecks, [[36]]like wine glistening through crystal beakers, charmed her exceedingly. She thought Georges much more amusing than he was yesterday at the Verstraetens’, where he had twice observed that the effect of red light was more flattering than that of green. To-day he did not repeat himself, but rattled on, interrupting her with laughing impudence, and rounding off his sentences with truly French vivacity.
Several times Eline tried to lead Jeanne into that circle of sparkling nothings, but in return Jeanne had only smiled a faint smile, or just answered with a single monosyllable, and at length Eline gave up the attempt to draw her out. The conversation grew more general; Emilie joined in with her easy nonchalance and airy banter; and Frans, in the midst of this charmed circle, could not help throwing in a stray spark of fun, although his eyes frequently rested with an anxious look on his quiet little wife.
To Jeanne it seemed as though the dinner would never come to an end. Although she had not the slightest appetite, she did not like to continue refusing, so she took of the truffled chicken, of the gâteau Henri IV., of the pines, and the choice dessert; her wine, however, she merely touched with her lips. Henk, next her, ate much, and with evident gusto, wondering why she helped herself to such small portions. De Woude ate but little, his continued talking prevented that; but Emilie did her share, and was not sparing with the wine.
It was past eight when they rose, and the ladies retired to the drawing-room. Frans joined Henk and de Woude in a cigar, as Jeanne had expressed her desire to stay another half-hour. Betsy had asked her to do so; she could not let her guests go so soon, and there would be plenty of time for the opera.
“Is Dora often ill, Jeanne?” asked Eline, as with a rustle of her red silk she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand. “Last time I saw her nothing ailed her, and even then I thought she was looking very pale and delicate.”
Jeanne gently withdrew her hand, and felt something like irritation at such a question after the conversation at table. She made but curt reply. But Eline persisted, as though she intended by her present amiability to make good her former neglect; and she managed to impart such a sympathetic tone to her voice, that Jeanne felt quite touched. Jeanne began to express her fears that Doctor Reyer had not examined her little girl as carefully as he [[37]]might; and Eline, whilst sipping her coffee, listened with evident interest to her maternal plaints. Emilie and Betsy had meanwhile gone into the adjoining boudoir, to look at some fashion-plates.
“Poor girl! what a lot of cares and worries you have, and scarcely three months in Holland yet! You only arrived in September, did you not?” asked Eline, as she placed the little china cup on the round table in front of her.
Jeanne was silent; but all at once she rose up, and in her turn grasping Eline’s slender fingers, she remarked, in her longing for affection—
“Eline, you know I have always been pretty straightforward and frank; may I ask you something?”