“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That old friend of Uncle’s, who speaks on Peace. I’ve heard him: it was splendid, splendid. His speech was topping, I’m mad on Peace. But he takes possession of Uncle; the boys have seen them together twice, in a motor-car. It’s all through Brauws that I never see anything of either of you.... I suppose he’s been to dinner, too?”
“I’m jealous, Auntie. Why should he come when you don’t ask me? Doesn’t Mr. Van Vreeswijck ever come now either? If you’re angry with me, I’ll be an angel in the future, I’ll never invite myself again. But do invite me again, yourself!”
“But, you silly child, I’m not angry.”
“Yes, you are; you’re cross with me. You’re not the same. You’re different towards me. I feel it. I see it.”
“But, Marianne....”
“Aren’t you? Am I wrong?.... Tell me that you’re not cross with me.”
She knelt down by Constance, caressingly.
“Marianne, what a baby you are!... I am not cross: there!”