"I could never have done what you did, never."
"I am so glad that you came to see me this morning, Adolphine. And that we have had this quiet talk."
"If you had written to me at the time and asked my advice, instead of writing to Mamma only, I should have told you my opinion quietly," said Adolphine, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "I should have recommended you, as a sister, for your own sake, not to come back to the Hague. You have become quite unsuited for Holland, for the Hague and for living among your family. Everything in your ideas, in your home life, in your way of bringing up your son clashes with our Dutch notions of what is right and decent and proper. I'm not saying this angrily, you know, Constance: I'm saying it calmly, very calmly. I daresay that is best. You dress yourself as no Dutchwoman of your age would think of doing. The fact that you have no one to your house except a friend of your husband's causes comment. The way in which you bring up your son is considered exceptionally lax."
"Anything more?"
"Yes, there's something more: why did you ever leave Brussels? That's what we all ask ourselves. Bertha was saying, only the other day, that you would make things impossible for her, if you thought of pushing yourself and getting yourself presented. And she declared positively that she would never ask you to her official dinners."
"Anything more?"
"Anything more, anything more: what more do you want? I'm not saying it to offend you, Constance, but because I like you and want to save you from further disappointments. Do you think it pleasant for Bertha and me to have our friends talking about our family as they are doing? And that they do so is your fault entirely."
Constance' hands were shaking; and, in order to employ them, she began to fold the laces lying on the table.
"Is that real Brussels?" asked Adolphine, with apparent guilelessness.
"Yes."