They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.
“And are you really going home? Won’t you come to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.
“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”
“So you’re going home.”
“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”
And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.
It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.
“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”
“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”
Brauws gave a sudden bellow.