"Good-evening, Toetie. Yes, yes, I know you: you're Toetie, Van Naghel's wife. And who's that?"
"That's my girl, Auntie: Marianne. And I'm Bertha...."
"Oh, yes, that's Emilietje!" Auntie Tine screamed in Auntie Rine's ear, in a moment of sudden and not yet perfect lucidity. "That's Toetie's daughter Emilie-etje!"
"No, Auntie, Emilie is married!"
"What d'you say? Is she dead?"
"No," screamed Auntie Tine, "Floortje, Floortje is married! This is Emilie-etje!"
"Oh, I see! Good-evening, Emilietje."
A smile lit up gloomy features here and there. The aunts never knew any one properly, were always a little muddled among all those nephews and nieces of a later generation. And, as a rule, nobody troubled for more than a moment to remind them of the real names. With the stubbornness of extremely old women, they continued to cling to their confusion of generations, persons and names.
Constance, sitting beside Paul, watched Bertha. In an importunate obsession to immerse herself in what she, at that moment, called her own disgrace—especially as that disgrace had been stamped in print—she had done nothing but ask Paul:
"Let me read it!"