a word to say. The old woman had taken Henri's
hand again; and the tears flowed from her eyes. Henri's jaws grated and
he shuddered, nervously:

"That's my boy," he said.

"So that is Adriaan," said the old woman, trembling, and her embrace,
which had not reached Constance, now closed upon the child. He kissed
her in his turn; and then the old man also embraced him and the child
kissed him back.

"Hendrik," said the old woman. "Hendrik, how like ... how like Henri,
when he was that age!"

The old man nodded gently. The past was coming back to the old people;
and it was as if they saw their own son when he was thirteen. They were
so much surprised at this that they could only stare at the boy, as
though they did not believe their eyes, as though it were some strange
dream.

Constance stood stiffly and said nothing. But the old woman now said:

"It is a great pleasure to us to see you here, Constance."

Constance tried to smile:

"You are very kind," she said, pleasantly.

"But do sit down," said the old woman, trembling, and she pointed to the
chairs.

They all sat down; and Henri made an effort to talk naturally, about
Driebergen. The past that lay between them was so high-heaped that it
seemed as though they were never to approach one another across this
obstacle. So many words that should have been spoken had remained
unspoken, for the sake of an harmonious silence, that silence itself
became a torture; and so many years were piled between the parents and
the children that it seemed impossible for them now to reach one another
with words. The words fell strangely in the sombre room, which looked
out upon the March garden and upon the road paling away in the vague
mists; the words fell like things, strangely, like hard, round things,
material things, and struck against one another like marbles clashing
together....

It was the painful talking on indifferent topics that was almost
impossible. For the words constantly struck against things of the past,
things painful to the touch; and there were no indifferent topics. When
Henri said that Driebergen was very much changed, he was referring to
his many years of absence. When Constance made a remark about Brussels,
she was referring to her long residence there, during which her
husband's parents had refused to see her and looked upon her as a
disgrace. When they spoke of Addie's life as a small child, it was as
though they two, the father and the mother, were