Another period of babbling and waiting; then another footman appeared. Again everybody sprang to his feet. Again all, except the silent Holsmas, railed at such stupidity.
The crowd became more restless. Innumerable times were they fooled by some footman or other, who opened a door to break the monotony. The people were already beginning to complain, but softly, cautiously.
Walter was carried away with the elegance and magnificence of it all. One thing, however, jarred upon his sense of propriety: he wondered how such swell folk could say such commonplace things. The Holsmas said nothing. Only once, when Uncle Sybrand pointed to a certain box, did they join in the general hubbub.
“She will sit there, I think.”
“I shall be sorry if I have left little Erich all for nothing,” said Mevrouw Holsma.
“He’s safe with Femke.”
“Yes, but I had rather be with him myself. The child is sick. I’m not going to wait much longer.”
“It’s doubtful whether she will come with the others. I’ve heard that she’s full of moods and mischief. She cares nothing for convention. It seems to run in the blood.”
“If she isn’t here by ten o’clock I’m going. I don’t care much about it, anyway.”
This conversation occupied Walter for a short time. Who was this person on whose account Mevrouw Holsma had left the bedside of her sick child?