She does not move, does not turn, only clings more closely.

“Downie, shall I let him take you?” whispers Uncle Theodore.

She answers only with a shudder, which quivers through him also.

Uncle Theodore feels so strong, so inspired.  He, too, no longer sees his perfect nephew as before in the bright light of his perfection.  He dares to jest with him.

“Maurits,” he says, “you surprise me.  Love makes you weak.  Can you so promptly forgive her having called you a scoundrel?  You must break with her instantly.  Your honor, Maurits, think of your honor!  Nothing in the world can permit a woman to insult a man.  Place yourself in the chaise, my boy, and go away without this abandoned creature!  It is only pure and simple justice after such an insult.”

As he finishes this speech, he puts his big hands about her head and bends it back so that he can kiss her forehead.

“Give up this abandoned creature!” he repeats.

But now Maurits begins to understand also.  He sees the light in Uncle Theodore’s eyes and how one smile after the other dances over his lips.

“Come, Anne-Marie!”

She starts.  Now he calls her as the man to whom she has promised herself.  She feels she must obey.  And she lets go of Uncle Theodore so suddenly that he cannot stop her, but she cannot go to Maurits; so she slides down to the floor and there she remains sitting and sobs.

“Go home alone in your chaise, Maurits,” says Uncle Theodore sharply.  “This young lady is guest in my house as yet, and I intend to protect her from your interference.”

He no longer thinks of Maurits, but only to lift her up, dry her tears and whisper that he loves her.

Maurits, who sees them, the one weeping, the other comforting, cries:  “Oh, this is a conspiracy!  I am tricked!  This is a comedy!  You have stolen my betrothed from me and you mock me!  You let me call one who never intends to come!  I congratulate you on this affair, Anne-Marie!”

As he rushes out and slams the door, he calls back:  “Fortune-hunter!”

Uncle Theodore makes a movement as if to go after him and chastise him, but Downie holds him back.

“Ah, Uncle Theodore, do let Maurits have the last word.  Maurits is always right.  Fortune-hunter,—­that is just what I am, Uncle Theodore.”

She creeps again close to him without hesitation, without question.  And Uncle Theodore is quite confused; just now she was weeping and now she is laughing; just now she was going to marry one man and now she is caressing another.  Then she lifts up her head and smiles:  “Now I am your little dog.  You cannot be rid of me.”

“Downie,” says Uncle Theodore with his gruffest voice:  “You have known it the whole time!”

She began to whisper:  “Had my brother—­”

“And yet you wished, Downie—­Maurits is lucky to be rid of you.  Such a foolish, deceitful, hypocritical Downie, such an unreliable little wisp, such a, such a—­”