“I think there is nothing more to-night,” said M. de Witt. “You will be wishing to get home—have you comfortable lodgings?” he added kindly.
“Yes, Mynheer, in the Kerkestraat.”
“You must dine with us soon. Will you leave out the letter from Middelburg? I need not remind you to be early in the morning—there is somewhat to do. Good-night, Mynheer.”
“Good-night, Mynheer.”
M. de Witt smiled in his melancholy, half tender, half distant fashion and left the room.
Florent Van Mander put away the papers, setting aside in an upper drawer the letter from Van Teel, locked the desk and placed the key on his watch-chain.
The sunlight in the garden was taking on a deeper hue and flushing the walls of the library and the well-filled bookcases to a red-gold colour; the leaves of the wych elms shook in a trembling, joyous kind of life and motion in the strong yet gentle breeze that was arising.
The deep, solemn chimes of the Groote Kerk struck six.
It was later than the secretary had supposed; he usually had his dinner at this hour. He took his eyes from the quiet beauty of the garden and hastened to leave the house.