Then the merchant cries out suddenly with Flemish primitiveness: “Chairs, Wilhelmina; chairs for the gentlemen!”
“Father!” remarks the young lady haughtily, “you forget we have lackeys in the house,” and, ringing a hand bell, orders the serving man to place seats for the cavaliers.
“Oh, ho! more foreign airs!” jeers the old gentleman snappishly, apparently taking up a discussion that has been dropped. “Don’t forget Flanders simplicity, my daughter. Though your father is called a millionaire, perhaps he won’t be a millionaire long, with that accursed tenth penny tax,” adds Niklaas, grinding his teeth.
“You come from Brussels, Señor Antony,” interrupts the young lady, adopting the Spanish style of address. “While there I presume, as the Duke’s under-secretary, you met the Duchess of Aerschot. She arrives in Antwerp to-day, and gives an entertainment to-morrow evening. You will be there, I presume, Captain Amati, also Señor Oliver?”
“Unfortunately I leave Antwerp this evening,” answers Guy.
“And under-secretaries and heralds are not invited,” remarks the painter, apparently by no means pleased at the idea.
“You’ll go, I presume, Freule Bodé Volcker?” suggests [[91]]Guy, persuasively. “Your dance, I believe, is much admired.”
“Of course,” murmurs the young lady, nonchalantly.
“Of course not!” cries the Flemish father with the air of a Roman one.
“Papa!”