The family rubbed, and felt, and smelt; and then they declared unanimously that Walter’s back had been guilty of absorbing all kinds of sticky gases and liquids.
“Really, it smells like lemon,” said Trudie.
“And like wine!”
“And it’s just coated with sugar. Boy, where have you been? Don’t you have any sense of shame? To go to visit such swell people with lemon and sugar on your back! It’s a disgrace, a disgrace.”
“There was such a crowd on the street.”
“That don’t explain the wine on your back—nor the lemon—nor the sugar. What say you, Trudie?”
There was complete unanimity. Timid, as usual, Walter didn’t have the courage to tell everything. Nor would this have done any good. The understanding of the Pieterse family was like a rusty lock that no key will open. Walter knew this, and remembering former sad experiences, allowed the storm to rage above his head. Unfortunately he, too, in a sense, was rusty. His nobility of character had suffered; he had been guilty of cowardice.
He felt it. No minister could pray it away. Not even God himself could revoke it. Everyone must act according to his conviction, Mevrouw Holsma had said. He had not done this.
A dog would have kissed the hem of Femke’s garment, meeting her after such a long separation. For it was she. Certainly it was Femke—or——
Oh, he was hunting for or’s!