" said Constance, "you were not seventeen. You were
always cutting bread-and-butter for Bertha's children. Otto and Louise
were seven and five then; Emilie was a baby. Now she's engaged...."

She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears, her breast heaved.

"My dear child," said the old lady.

"It's a long time ago, Connie," said Dorine.

It was twenty years since any one had called her Connie.

"So you're thirty-six now, Dorine?"

"Yes, Connie, thirty-six," said Dorine, uncomfortable, as usual, when
anybody spoke of her; and she felt her smooth, flat hair, to see if it
was drawn well back.

"You've changed very little, Dorine."

"Do you think so, Connie?"

"I am very glad of it.... Will you like me a little, Dorine?"

"Why, of course, Connie."

"My dear child," said the old lady, much moved.

They were all three silent for a while. Constance felt so much, was so
full of the past years, that she could not have uttered another word.

"Why didn't you bring Addie?" asked Mamma.

"I thought he might be too young."

"The two Marietjes always come; and so do Adolphine's boys. We never sit
up late, because of the children."

"Then I'll bring him next time, Mamma."

Dorine stole a glance at her sister and reflected that Constance was
still pretty, for a woman of forty-two. What a young and pretty figure,
thought Dorine; but then it was a smart dress; and Constance was sure to
wear very expensive stays. Regular features: she was like Mamma; a
clear-cut profile; dark eyes, now dimmed with melancholy; very pretty,
white hands, with rings; and her hair especially interested Dorine: it
was turning into a uniform steel-grey and it curled.

"Connie, does your hair curl of itself?"

"Of course not, Dorine; I wave it."

"What a labour!"

Constance gave a careless laugh.

"Constance always had nice hair," said Mamma, proudly.

"Oh, no, Mamma dear! I have horrid, straight hair."

They were silent again; and all three of them felt that they were not
speaking of what lay at their hearts.

"Constance, what lovely rings you have!"

"Ah, Dorine, I remember you used to admire me in the old days; when I
went to a ball, you used to stand and gaze at me. But there is nothing
left to admire, Dorine: I'm an old stick, now...."

"My dear!" said Mamma, indignantly.

"You needn't mind, Mamma: you're always young, a young grandmamma...."

And she pressed Mamma's hand, with a touching fervour.

[1] A half-caste.