It was in this same room he had taken leave of the Prince three years ago. It seemed in every detail unchanged.
Florent recalled the precise and sombre furniture, the dark walls, the portrait of Mary Stewart, Princess of Orange, above the mantelshelf, the table between the windows covered with books and papers, the shining brass fireirons and the blue-tiled hearth.
To-day the room was filled with the hazy February sunshine, and on the black lacquer cabinet inside the door stood, unexpectedly, a bowl of white and yellow narcissi.
The Prince was standing in the far window embrasure, with his back towards the door.
He wore a velvet suit of a colour he affected, a clear violet. He held his riding-whip behind his back, and the sunlight picked out bright threads in the long hair that fell between his shoulders.
Florent closed the door.
Slowly the Prince turned and shot him a keen glance.
“Ah, the messenger from M. Bentinck.”
He held out his hand for the letter, and by his manner it seemed that he had forgotten he had ever seen Van Mander before.
“M. Bentinck is ill at Hertogenbosch, Highness, otherwise he would be here in person.”