The dinner went on; but the mention of Dalima had somewhat dashed the high spirits of the guests. The recollection of the sad event of the morning seemed to cast a chill over them all and to sober down even the merriest of the party.
“Poor little Dalima!” sighed Grashuis, after a few moments’ silence during which he had been discussing a duck’s wing, “Poor little Dalima! could she be guilty of smuggling opium?”
“Get along with you,” cried van Beneden. “Does that pretty little thing look like a smuggler?”
“Take care, August,” said van Rheijn with a laugh, “a lawyer ought not to allow himself to be influenced by outward appearance. Am I not right, Charles?”
Van Nerekool was not there and then ready with an answer to this appeal; he was in fact busily employed in removing the bones from a splendid slice of fish. But after a moment’s pause he said:
“Certainly not—yet, for all that I also am firmly persuaded of the girl’s innocence.”
“Of course, of course—the baboe of nonna Anna, eh Charles—cela va sans dire?”
“But,” remarked van Rheijn, “the thing that puzzles me is that the opium was found upon her.”
“Do you believe that?” asked another.
“Well I don’t know what to say, there is Muizenkop’s testimony.”