But her daughters were not interested in Marthe; the English girl at the Van Heigens’ interested them a great deal more.  They continued to talk about her a great deal afterwards, Denah going back with her sister to the kitchen and the vegetables, so as to be able to do so undisturbed.

“I will help you with these,” she said; “then we can go out.”

She sat down and took up a knife.  “It is strange how much Vrouw Van Heigen thinks of that girl,” she said.  “She has been there but one month and already there is no one like her.  She does not keep her in her place very well; were she a daughter more could not be said.  I wonder how Mijnheer likes it.”

“It was Mijnheer who engaged her,” Anna said.  “It is not likely that he regrets.  I hear that she has written some English letters for him since one of the clerks has been ill.  My father says she can cook like a Frenchwoman, and that is something.  As for Joost, it is surely of little importance to him, he is too quiet to say anything to her; she talks little; she must be shy.”

Denah had nothing to say to this, although, seeing in which person her own interest in the Van Heigens lay, she possibly found some comfort in the assurance.  After a little she remarked, “That girl has no accomplishments; she is as old-fashioned as our Aunt Barje, a huisvrouw, no more.  It is strange, for the English women make fun of us for this, and pretend that they are educated and advanced above us; she is not, she can do nothing but speak a few languages; she cannot sing nor play, she has read no science, she cannot draw, nor model in wax, nor make paper flowers, nor do bead work; she could not even crochet till I showed her how.  I wonder if she has made any progress with the pattern I gave her.  Shall we go and see by and by?  I might set her right if she is in a difficulty, and we could at the same time inquire after Mevrouw’s throat; she had a weakness, I noticed, on Tuesday.”

Anna agreed; she was a most obliging sister, and a while later they set out together for the Van Heigens’ house.  They did not walk in the wide, clean road, but were careful to keep to the path, pausing a moment to consult before starting for the other side when it was necessary to cross over.

The Van Heigens’ house stood on the outskirts of the town, a long way back from the road.  The bulb garden lay all round it, though immediately in front was a lawn so soft and green that no one ever walked on it.  The house was of wood, painted white, and had a high-pitched roof of strange, dark-coloured tiles; a canal lay on two sides, which ought to have made it damp, but did not.

Vrouw Van Heigen was pleased to see the girls, and received them with an effusiveness which might have suggested that a longer time than four days had elapsed since they last met.  She kissed them on both cheeks, and led them in by the hand; she asked particularly how they were, and how their mother was, and how their father was, and if they were not very tired with their walk, and would they not have lemonade—­yes, they must have lemonade.  “Julia, Julia,” she called, “bring lemonade, bring glasses and the lemonade.”