Ottilie rose, angrily:
"No, of course not: nothing can ever be done. Because of that wretched money. But I'll tell you this: when Lot is married, I can't ... I c-can't ..."
She stammered when she was angry.
"Well, what can't you?"
"I c-can't ... stay alone with you! I shall go to Nice, to Ottilie."
"All right, go."
He said it calmly, with great indifference, and took up his paper again. But it was enough to make Ottilie, who was highly strung, burst into sobs:
"You don't care a bit about me any more!"
Steyn shrugged his shoulders and went out of the room and upstairs; the dog sprang in front of him, barking.
Ottilie remained alone; and her sobs ceased at once. She knew it herself—the years had taught her as much as that—she easily lost her temper and would always remain a child. But, in that case, why grow older, in ever-increasing loneliness? There she sat, there she sat now, an old, grey woman, in that unhomely room; and everything was past. Oh, if Lot only remained with her, her Lot, her Charlot, her boy! And she felt her jealousy of Lot and Elly, at first restrained, rising more and more violently. And that other jealousy: her jealousy of Steyn. He irritated her when he merely entered the room; but she still remained jealous of him, as she always had been of every man that loved her. Oh, to think that he no longer cared about her, because she had grown old! Oh, to think that he never uttered a word of affection now, never gave her a kiss on her forehead! She was jealous of Elly because of Lot, she was jealous of Lot because of Steyn, because Steyn really cared more for Lot, nowadays, than for her! How cruel the years were, slowly to take everything from her! The years were past, the dear, laughing love-years, full of caresses; all that was past! Even the dog had just gone off with Steyn: no living creature was nice to her; and why need Lot suddenly go getting married now? She felt so forlorn that, after the forced sobs, which she had stopped as soon as they were no longer necessary, she sank into a chair and wept softly, really weeping, this time, because no one loved her and because she was forlorn. Her still young and beautiful eyes, overflowing with tears, looked into the vanished past. Then—in the days when she was the beautiful Lietje—everything about her had been pleasant, nice, caressing, playful, jesting, almost adoring and entreating, because she was so pretty and gay and attractive and had an irresistible laugh and a temper full of the most delightful little whims. True, through all this there was always the sting of jealousy; but in those days so much of it had come her way: all the caressing homage which the world, the world of men, expends on a pretty woman! She laughed at it through her tears; and the memory meandered around her, bright as pretty little, distant clouds. Oh, what a wealth of adulation had surrounded her then! Now, all those men were old or dead; only her own three husbands were alive; and Steyn was still young. He was too young: if he had not been so young, she would have kept her charm for him longer and they would still be nice to each other, happy together as old people can be sometimes, even though the warmth of youth is past.... She heaved a deep sigh through her tears and sat in her chair like a helpless child that has been naughty and now does not know what to do. What was there for her to do now? Just to go quietly to bed, in her lonely room, an old woman's room, in her lonely bed, and to wake in the morning and drag one more old day after the old, old days! Ah, why could she not have died while she was young?