"Can't I remember? Well, yes, if I think hard, I may remember something.... You're right: I was a lad of fifteen then...."
"Do you remember"—Ina turned and looked down the passage, looked at the open door of the morning-room, saw her father's back huddled into a despondent curve—"do you remember ... Grandmamma's baboe?"
"Yes, certainly," said Anton Dercksz, "I remember her."
"Ma-Boeten?"
"I daresay that was her name."
"Did she know anything?"
"Did she know anything? Very likely, very likely.... Yes, I expect she knew...."
"What was it, Uncle? Papa is so depressed: I'm not asking out of curiosity...."
He grinned. He did not know; he had only guessed something, for the space of a second, and had always suspected something between his mother and Takma, something that they hid together, while they waited and waited. But he grinned with pleasure because Ina wanted to know and because she was not going to know, at least not through him, however much she might imagine that he knew. He grinned and said:
"My dear, there are things which it is better not to know. It doesn't do to know everything that happened ... sixty years ago...."