aig
reason, and just stood and looked round. Wherever
he was he noticed the silence.
For a few evenings he went out early, saying he
was going for a walk. He could bear the loneliness
better out of doors, for there he could think about
himself and what he could do to improve things.
Then he realised that it was the house that got on
his nerves, because, just as in the past, when he had
done wrong, it was the only thing he could lay the
blame on. He wondered if it would have been better
if he had been brought up and had to live in another
house ; he decided that was nonsense, for the guilt
was in him, and he had inherited that at his birth.
After all, the others who lived in that same house
were all honest people. The reason why it had
always seemed dark and dismal was because his own
wickedness had prevented him from seeing anything
cheerful. But why, then, did he again and again
try to fix the blame on the house ? Silently he
walked beside Wijntje on her evening out, with a
feeling that there was something surrounding him
that separated him from others ; her voice sounded
to him muffled, like a voice coming from a different
room. How could he answer when she asked what
was wrong with him? What more could he say
than what he had said a hundred times before, about
sin and the urge to do wrong. ' Floris,' she said,
* do answer me.' And he did not even hear her.
Sometimes, before she went to see her parents,