He could not find the words. All that he could get out was a rough word, cruel, hard and insulting:
“Plotting and scheming ... if you want to go plotting....”
Her eyes flamed; she felt his intention to insult her. But his suffering was so obvious, she saw him so plainly writhing under his pain, that the angry tempest died down at once and she merely said, very gently:
“She has refused him.”
He looked at her. The black cloud lifted from his eyes, which turned blue again, and his gloomy frown gave way to his usual boyish expression, full of wide-eyed astonishment now. His features relaxed, his whole body relaxed; he gave a shiver and sat down, as though all his temper and rage were subsiding like a sudden storm that had arisen for no reason at all. And he asked, slowly:
“She ... has refused him?”
“Yes. Of course, Bertha had nothing against it. But Marianne, when I spoke to her, declined at once. I did not insist. Poor Vreeswijck!”
“Yes, poor fellow!” he said, mechanically.
“I wanted to tell you, because ...”
“Because what?”