CHAPTER XIII.
BELET!
We got on famously at Utrecht and at the Arnhem station. In less time than it takes to tell it we were mounted on our cycles with our bags in front of us, and ready for the road.
“This is fine!” exclaimed Terence. And indeed it was. Charmed by the ease with which we had got along so safely, I felt a trifle elated over our linguistic victories, and had already begun to dream of fresh fields to conquer, when we drew near van Leeuwen’s villa on the Velperweg—a lovely spot.
We dismounted to make sure we were right, and then walked briskly up the avenue.
The door was opened by a timid-looking servant, who said: “Er is belet.”
WELKE MIJNHEER?
It was the first time I had met the expression; yet it sounded oddly familiar. Ah, of course. For the last ten days I had been studying biljetten out of the railway-guide. There was apparently a slight provincialism in her way of the rendering the liquid in the middle of the word, but this didn’t matter. There was a ticket, then. Puzzling, very.
“Ja?” I said tentatively.
“Er is belet,” she repeated. The intonation was decisive; but as her manner was expectant, I took it for a question, had we tickets? Queer, certainly. Yes; I assured her we had,—“gewone biljetten, retour,—geldig voor éen dag.”
She shifted her ground and said, “Mijnheer heeft belet.”