In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.
“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”
Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.
“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”
Van der Welcke laughed:
“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”
He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.
“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”
Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.