She saw him turn pale; his eyes blazed angrily, as though sparks were flashing from that vivid blue, generally so young and boyish.
“He would so much like ... he asked me....”
She could not get the words out, looked at him, afraid of his eyes, now that she was in no mood for a scene of mutual recrimination. But she could not keep silent either:
“He asked me ... if I thought ... that Marianne....”
She saw him give a shiver. He understood it all. Nevertheless, she went on:
“That Marianne could get to care for him.... He asked me to go to Bertha ... and ask her....”
“Van Vreeswijck? Marianne?” he repeated; and his eyes were almost black. “Asked you ... to go to Bertha?... Well, you’re not mixing yourself up in it, are you? You’re not going, surely?”
“I went this morning,” she said; and her voice once more sounded discordant.
He seemed to hear a hostile note in it. And, unable to contain himself, he flew into a passion:
“You went? You went this morning?” he raved; and even in his raving she saw the suffering. “Why need you mix yourself up in it? What business has Van Vreeswijck to come asking you?... Van Vreeswijck....”