of people, for the
sake of the family--in the same obscure corner in which I remained for
years in Brussels, where I was disowned by all of you as a disgrace. I
can't do it, Bertha, I can't do it. I could do it, as far as I am
concerned; but I can't, because of my son."

"He is a child still."

"He is growing older every day. I see, Bertha, that I ought either to
have stayed away from you all, without indulging my modest yearnings and
simple wishes, or else to have rehabilitated myself at once, in the eyes
of all the Hague."

"Constance...."

"But it's not too late. It's not too late to repair my mistake. I can
still take steps towards my rehabilitation. And I ask, I demand that
rehabilitation, of you, Bertha, in particular."

"Of me?"

"Yes, Bertha, of you in particular. Just because you are the sister
whose husband not only occupies a high position, but also possesses more
connections than any of us in the set that used to be our father's. Just
for that reason, Bertha, I demand my rehabilitation of you. If I'm not
to be allowed to live quietly, in a corner, at the Hague, surrounded by
a little family-affection; if those simple wishes are to be discussed
and criticized; if they are the cause that my unfortunate past--my
fault, my sin, whatever you like to call it--is raked up, not only in
dirty little scurrilous rags, but also at the gossipy tea-parties and
clubs at the Hague, then I will come out of my corner, then I will be
rehabilitated: not for my own sake alone, but mainly for my son's; and I
demand my rehabilitation of you. It is possible that you don't care for
my sisterly love; but, as a condition of that love, I now demand my
rehabilitation."

"But, good Heavens, Constance, what can I, what _can_ I do for you?"

"What can you do for me? Receive me on your at-home days. Make it clear
to your husband that you must receive me, that you can't act otherwise
towards a sister than receive her, now that she has once--in an evil
hour--returned to the Hague. Not hesitate any longer to introduce me to
whoever it may be, in your drawing-room," she exclaimed, with her dark
eyes quivering, her every nerve trembling, as she sat between Bertha and
Paul.

Her sister was almost panting with suppressed excitement and
helplessness, while her brother listened in dismay to her demands, which
appeared to him, the _blase_, world-worn sage, to contain no philosophy
whatever. And Constance went on:

"What can you do for m