“Mr. Bromley and a groom.”
“See His Highness’ gentleman is made comfortable, and let the horses be looked to,” said the Princess.
The man bowed low as he withdrew. The subtle air of a Court still clung round Amalia of Solms; in her own house, at least, she was treated as a sovereign Princess. William respected her for that. He found the atmosphere of her pleasant residence congenial; it was the nearest approach to home that he had ever known, and, compared with his dreary Palace at the Hague, ease, luxury, and comfort combined.
The Princess settled herself in her chair.
“I have not seen you since your visit to Middelburg. Come nearer the fire; sit down and tell me all that happened.”
She was a handsome old lady; had been of the pretty, imperious style of beauty, dark and flashing. As she leant back on her cushions now, in her yellow silk gown, with her brown eyes under her white hair and the fine lace round her head and fastened under her chin, she was a beauty still.
“You know what occurred at Middelburg, Madame,” answered William, not very warmly.
“I have had reports—letters from Mr. Bromley, to whom I am eternally grateful!—but from you nothing!”
William leant on the arm of his chair, coughed, and pushed back his curls.