"Yes-yes-yes," said the doctor, rubbing his short, fat, fleshy hands with a shiver. "It's coldish, it's chilly, Anna. You may as well have a fire...."
"Mr. Takma says fires are the dickens."
"Yes, but he's always blazing hot inside," said Dr. Roelofsz, viciously. "Well-well-well, here are the children...."
"Can we go up?" asked Elly, entering with Lot.
"Yes, go upstairs, miss," said Anna. "Mr. Harold is just coming down; and there's no one upstairs but Mamma ... and Mr. Takma."
"Grandmamma's holding a court," said Lot, jestingly.
But his voice hesitated in joking, for a certain awe always oppressed him as soon as he entered his grandmother's house. It was because of that atmosphere of the past into which he sometimes felt too hyperimaginative to intrude, an atmosphere from which bygone memories and things constantly came floating. The old doctor, who had something of a monk and something of a Silenus in his appearance, was so very old and, though younger than Grandmamma, had known her as a young and seductive woman.... Here was Uncle Harold coming down the stairs: he was much younger, but a deep and mysterious melancholy furrowed his faded face, which moreover was wrung with physical pain.
"Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, children," he said, gently, and went away after shaking hands with them. "Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, Roelofsz...."
That voice, broken with melancholy, always made Lot shudder. He now followed Elly up the stairs, while the doctor remained below, talking to old Anna:
"Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!"