“How long was Mrs. van Oudijck at Batavia?” asked Ida.
“Two months,” said the doctor’s wife. “A very long visit, this time.”
“I hear,” said Mrs. Doorn de Bruijn, placid, melancholy and quietly venomous, “that this time one member of council, one head of a department and three young business-men kept Mrs. van Oudijck amused at Batavia.”
“And I can assure you people,” said the doctor, “that, if Mrs. van Oudijck did not go to Batavia regularly, she would miss a beneficial cure, even though she takes it on her own and not ... by my prescription.”
“Let us speak no evil!” Eva interrupted, almost entreatingly. “Mrs. van Oudijck is beautiful—with a tranquil Junoesque beauty and the eyes of a Venus—and I can forgive anything to beautiful people about me. And you, doctor,” threatening him with her finger, “mustn’t betray professional secrets. You doctors, in India, are often far too outspoken about your patients’ secrets. When I’m unwell, it’s never anything but a headache. Will you make a careful note of that, doctor?”
“The resident seems preoccupied,” said Doorn de Bruijn.
“Could he know ... about his wife?” asked Ida, sombrely, her great eyes filled with black velvet tragedy.
“The resident is often like that,” said Frans van Helderen. “He has his moods. Sometimes he’s pleasant, cheerful, jovial, as he was lately, on circuit. Then again he has his gloomy days, working, working and working and grumbling that nobody does any work except himself.”
“My poor, unappreciated Onno!” sighed Eva.
“I believe he’s overworking himself,” said Van Helderen. “Labuwangi is a tremendously busy district. And the resident takes things too much to heart, both in his own house and outside, in his relations with his son and his relations with the regent.”