ning!" said Emilie; and the word sounded almost like a curse
between her lips.

"Marianne, will you write the letter? I'll pin the dress up. Or no, I
had better write myself. Constance, do look!"

"There's a crease here," said Constance, "but it's not very bad. Daren't
you have it altered here?"

"Upon my word, I'm paying...." Bertha began, but she checked herself and
did not say how much. "And to have it fit badly into the bargain!"

"Bertha, Frances asked me to come and see you."

"What about?"

"There's some trouble about Ottelientje's _boeboer_."

"I'll go up," said Bertha, worn-out though she was.

The maid, holding up Emilie's train, followed her into the bedroom;
Marianne and Constance remained behind alone. Constance saw that
Marianne was crying.

"What is it, dear?"

"Oh, Auntie!"

"What is it?"

"Is life worth all this bother and fuss? Getting married, moving your
things, dancing, giving dinners and parties, ordering dresses that don't
fit and cost hundreds, being ill, having babies, eating _boeboer_:
Auntie, is it really all worth while?"

"Why, Marianne, I might be listening to Paul!"

"Oh, no, I'm not so eloquent as Paul! But I'm suffocating with it all,
I'm stifling and I'm terribly, terribly, terribly unhappy!"

"Marianne!"

The young girl suddenly burst into nervous sobs and threw herself into
Constance' arms. Around her, the room was one scene of confusion; the
doors were all open.

"Marianne, let me shut the doors."

"No, Auntie, don't mind about that, but stay with me, do! It's more than
I can stand, more than I can stand! I'm so tired of this rush, of this
unnecessary excitement, of the party yesterday, of those
tableaux-vivants, of Floortje's jealousy, of Aunt Adolphine's
spitefulness, I am tired, tired, tired of everything. I can't stand it,
Auntie. I'm so fond of Emilie, we've always been together, it was so
nice, so jolly; and now, all at once, she's getting married to that
hateful man; and she's taking away her sketches; and it's all over; and
now everything's gone, everything's gone! And Henri too is so upset
about it: he dotes on Emilie, just as I do, and he can't understand
either what she's doing it for. She's very happy here; Papa and Mamma
and all the rest are fond of her; we had such a nice life, even if it
was a bit overdone and I don't care for that everlasting going out; but
now it's all over, all over! I sat crying with Henri yesterday; and at
the party we had