“That’s ... Henri!”
“Yes, it’s Henri’s voice....”
“And Eduard....”
“Heavens!... Leentje!” cried Louise. “Go to Mr. Henri and Mr. Eduard and tell them that Papa doesn’t wish them to speak loud.”
“The blackguard!” said Leentje.
She left the room and went down the stairs. The whole house was lit up, the doors of the reception-rooms were open; one caught the glitter of the dinner-table amid its flowers and the sound of laughing voices: a soft, well-bred society-ripple, a ring of silver, a faint tinkling of crystal.
“The blackguard!” thought the old nurse.
She was down in the hall now: from the kitchen came the voices of bustling maids, of the chef, the footmen. The cloak-room was lighted and open, was full of wraps and overcoats. On the other side of the hall was the sitting-room of the two undergraduates.
Old Leentje opened the door. She saw Van Raven standing opposite Henri; their voices clashed, in bitter enmity:
“Then why did Emilie telegraph to me?”