y had met each other then by chance, as now, they could not
possibly have looked at each other gently, as now.... But the years had
toned down the pain and the cruelty; and now it was possible and even
agreeable for these two, mother and mother, to press each other's hands
and to exchange glances that asked for forgiveness.

"I also came to wish Henri many happy returns. He is sure to be back
with Addie for lunch," said Mrs. van Lowe.

But Constance returned; and now, in her own house, in her own
drawing-room, she felt shy and quite different from what she felt when,
offended and slighted, she had stood before Henri's parents, at
Driebergen, on that first and only visit. It was as though the combined
presence of those two mothers made her like to a child that had done
wrong. She felt as she had never felt before, felt small and childlike;
and, when, as was often her habit, she went to sit close by Mrs. van
Lowe, she took her mother's hand and laid her head upon her mother's
breast and no longer controlled herself, but wept.

And Mrs. van Lowe again looked at Henri's mother, as though she wished
to say:

"If it can be, do not condemn my child too severely, even as I do not
judge Henri too severely."

And, because there now flowed through her soul a gentle happiness that
had its source in contentment, Constance felt the poignancy of that
moment of Henri's home-coming when, tired after his ride, he walked in
with Addie and found his mother there, his mother, who never left her
house, sitting there in his house, between Constance and Mrs. van
Lowe....

Had some bond really been established at last, after long years? Had
those who could find no point of union that other morning, at
Driebergen, at last come closer? Was there really some sort of tie? And
was it just that it took a very long time--years and years and then
months after that--for things to become more or less easy and
pleasant?... In this mood, Constance' voice instinctively had a softer
note; and she felt at the same time a child to those two mothers and
very old to herself, very old in this lulling of passion and anger and
nerves. Would it be like this with her now, would her life just go on in
a succession of more and more placid years, would she just live for her
son? She asked herself this, deep down in her soul, almost
unconsciously; and a shadowy melancholy floated over her, because of
those two old mothers, because of Henri, because of herself. Was