"Yes," said the old man. "He will be thirty-nine."
And they said nothing more and stared before them. Then the old woman grew, restless again and rose from her chair with difficulty, hobbled through the room, holding on by the chairs as she went, and rang the bell:
"Light the gas and bring in the tea, Piet."
The butler lit the gas, drew the curtains and brought the tea. The old man sat down at the table with a book; and the light fell harshly on his ivory forehead and his blue-shaven face; his gnarled, bony hands cast large shadows over the book, turned the pages at regular intervals.
"Here's your tea, Hendrik."
The old man drank his cup of tea.
Then the old woman also took her book and read....
Slowly, in the course of years, she had read her Bible less and less, because she was wicked after all and because she had never resigned herself to the sacrifice which she had made, which it was her duty to make, before God and man. Then she chanced on a wonderful book which described what happened to people after death. And this book she read every evening.
But she was unable to read, this evening. As a rule, the old pair read, over their cup of tea, till ten o'clock, in silence, and then got up and went to bed. But the old woman could not read this evening. Her aching feet fidgeted on the stool, her bent body moved in vague discomfort. And she asked, still casually, nervously:
"Will Henri be thirty-nine to-morrow, Hendrik?"