Oh, he was to blame, he was to blame, he was to blame! He saw suddenly, in a sort of despair, that the only answer to the question which he sometimes had to ask in vague, black self-insufficiency was the assenting yes, yes, yes!... Because he had not known it for himself, entirely for himself, for the two personalities which he so clearly felt himself to be, he was to blame, because he loved his wife with only half of himself. Was she to blame in any way? Was she not what she always had been? No, she had changed, she had refined herself, as if her soul, despite the antipathy of her environment, had yet become transformed and grown more like the people and things that surrounded her! And it was his fault: he had brought her into this environment, in which no sympathy was created and which had given her nothing beyond a refinement of soul, senses and nerves, so that she now suffered through that which he had always thought that she would never perceive. With what sudden clearness, in her simplicity, she had seen it all, almost unconsciously, and was now flinging it at his feet! He wrung his hands and felt desperate at the thought of it all. Of an evening now, alone in his study, in the soft light of his reading-lamp the table with Guy’s books and maps standing in one corner he would walk up and down, up and down, wringing his hands, glancing deep into that despair, while the self-insufficiency was no longer vague, but soul-torturing in self-dissatisfaction, because he saw himself at fault in that great action of his life, which was still so very young, his marriage: at fault towards himself, at fault towards his wife. To let her marry him, because she was healthy and simply normal, with that idea of setting an example see, that is what we ought all to be: normal, simple and healthy oh, to love her, yes, but to love with only the half of himself, without ever giving her anything of the deep things of the soul, things which he gave to all with whom he felt a soul-relationship, without counting, in a lavish prodigality: how could he have done it, he who knew things for others I More clearly than ever he perceived that he had never known them for himself; and he clearly perceived that others, his father, his mother, had suspected that he did not know for himself, that he had not known when he brought Mathilde to them as his wife: into their midst, into their house. And now, in his emotion, in this lonely silent contemplation, there awakened within him the energy to redress, oh, to redress if possible: to redress everything, everything for her!...

Now, suddenly, he went to her room, where she was spending a moment after dinner, before tea was brought in, where he often found her when he wished to be alone with her for a minute; and he found her now. She was sitting listlessly in a chair; and the room was dark: the children were already asleep next door. He lit the gas and looked at her with all the energy that leapt up within him like springs, the energy to redress, to redress. And, without any preamble, he said:

“Tilly ... we’ll go to the Hague.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, in surprise.

“We shall go and live at the Hague. I shall do what you suggest: I shall look for a practice at the Hague.”

She had him to herself now, for the first time after their talk that afternoon, and suddenly, sobbing, she threw her arms around him, pressed him to her:

“Love me!” she implored.

“I do love you.... It won’t do for us to stay here.... It’s better that you should be quite by yourself, in your own house, your own mistress.”

“We’ve talked about it so often!” she sobbed.

“There will be money enough, Tilly; I shall make money.”

“You said five thousand guilders.”

“No, there will be more. Don’t be afraid, have no care, there will be enough ... and you can do as you please. I promise, I promise.”

“But it’s a sacrifice for you....”

“To leave the house?”

“Yes.”

“I’m fond of the house ... but it’s better that we should go to the Hague.”

“Your parents ... they will all miss you.”

“Now don’t make difficulties, Tilly.”

“No, Addie, no....”

“How do you mean, no?”

“I won’t go to the Hague.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too late.... It wouldn’t alter a thing.... It’s too late.”

“What’s too late?”

She sobbed and embraced him. She clutched him to her, she covered his lips with glowing kisses.

“Oh, let it be!” she said, in between her kisses; and her voice sounded utterly discouraged.

“Why, Tilly? Why? I want to see you happy.... It’s decided now: we’re going to the Hague. I’ll look out for a house.”

She shook her head.

“Tell me, Tilly: why do you refuse?”

She shrugged her shoulders:

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You love me, surely?”

“I love you, I dote on you, I’m mad on you!... Let us stay here and ... and ... love me a little.”

“But, Tilly, I do love you. You know I love you!”

He kissed her, very tenderly; and she accepted his kisses, with her eyes closed, and lay limply, as though tired, in his arms. Suddenly she thrust him away:

“Let me be,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Tilly....”

“Let me be ... stop kissing me.”

“Why mayn’t I kiss you?...”

“I don’t want you to.”

“And you say you love me!”

“Yes, but ... don’t kiss me any more.”

He looked at her in perplexity; and she said:

“It’s not only kissing....”

“Tilly!” he said, stretching out his arms. “Whatever it is, we shall find it for each other ... with each other....”

“Yes....”

“You think so, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You believe it? When we are at the Hague ... alone ... in our own home?”

“Yes, yes, I believe it.”

“And will you then be happy?”

“Yes ... when we have found it.”

“And we shall find it.”

“Yes.”

“Come and sit with me, in my study.... I have work to do: come and sit with me. I sha’n’t go downstairs for tea. I have some reading to do: come with me ... and stay with me this evening: will you?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will be as if we were already at home ... in our own home ... at the Hague....”

She went with him, pale, tired, listless, with his arm round her waist.