“Yes,” said the mother, “and you must iron out those creases. We iron, too, little boy, and we deliver the clothes ready to put on. Nobody can complain. You can tell your mother. And your collar—it isn’t ironed nicely—and such bluing! Ask Femke. Femke, isn’t the blue in stripes?”
His collar not ironed nicely? and blued in stripes? And the infallible Pietro had laundered it! Even here, were there differences in method and conception? And in this respect, too, was the Pieterse tradition not the only one that brought happiness?
Femke was on nettles. She studied Ophelia, wondering who she was, and tried to turn the conversation. At last something occurred to her. It was necessary for her to run some errand or other, and “the young gentleman” could “accompany” her a part of the way.
“As far as I’m concerned,” said the mother.
The young couple retired, taking one of those ways which in the neighborhood of Amsterdam are simply called “the ways.” That is all they are. Whoever walks there for pleasure must take a good stock of impressions with him, in order to escape tedium.
But Walter and Femke were not lacking in this respect. Walter had so much to tell Femke that he could scarcely hope to get through; and she, too, had thought of him more than she was willing to admit, and more than he had any idea of. She began by saying that she hadn’t told her mother of her unfriendly reception by Walter’s mother and sisters, because she didn’t want her mother——
“Oh, Femke—and you thought I would come?”
“Yes.” said Femke, hesitating, but still with a readiness that delighted Walter. “Yes, of course I expected to see you again. And I had a mass said for your recovery.”
“Really?” said Walter, who hardly knew what it meant. “You did that for me?”
“Yes, and I prayed, too. I should have been sad if you had died. For I believe you are a good boy.”