“Is ... is it his fault?... Is he a gentleman?”
Constance defended her husband calmly, but not without astonishment that Bertha could speak so frankly about that ... as if they both knew all about it:
“No, Bertha, I don’t think that Henri ... that it is Henri’s fault. I don’t think it’s Marianne’s fault either. Bertha, I don’t believe they can help it. They have an attraction for each other, a very great attraction....”
A tenderness came over her soul, like a glow, like a glowing compassion.
“Constance, they must not let themselves go. They must struggle against it.”
“Who can tell what they are doing, Bertha? Who can tell what goes on inside them?”
“No, they are not struggling.”
“Who can tell?”
“No, no.... Constance, it is just as well that we are going to Baarn.”
They heard voices in the drawing-room, loud voices, with an Indian accent. The Ruyvenaers were going: