“Max, you’re being dull. And you’re absurd too.”
“I’m sorry, Hans, I simply can’t talk about myself: you see, I’ve tried to, two or three times over.”
“Then we won’t worry you any more,” said Constance.
A constraint seemed to have come upon them, a barrier which rose between their words at every moment. Addie, disappointed, left the room quietly. In a little while, Brauws took his leave, awkwardly, almost rudely. Constance and Van der Welcke exchanged a glance when they were alone. Van der Welcke shook his head:
“The fellow’s mad,” he said. “Always was; but, since he’s joined the proletariats in America, he’s stark, staring mad. He was so jolly yesterday, coming with that old sewing-machine. He is a good sort, there’s something nice about him. But he’s quite mad. Vreeswijck is much better company. We won’t ask him again: what do you say, Constance? The fellow’s really mad; and, besides, he doesn’t know how to talk and, when all is said, he was impertinent, with his ‘titled capitalists.’ Indeed, I ought really to apologize to you for asking such a queer fish to your house.”
“He is different from other people,” she said, “but I think that, however much he may differ from you, he likes you.”
Her husband burst out irritably:
“You women,” he exclaimed, “are simply impossible! Who would ever have thought that you could have found a word of excuse for Brauws! Why, I was afraid that you would cover me with reproaches and point out to me that, even though we see nobody, you wouldn’t want to receive a socialist friend of mine. But there’s no understanding women!”
He was dissatisfied, out of temper, because of Brauws and that spasmodic conversation; and his tone seemed to invite a scene. But Constance raised her eyes to his very calmly and said, so gently and quietly that the voice did not sound like hers to his ears:
“Henri, your friend Brauws is a man and an exceptional man; and that is enough to captivate a woman for a moment.”