William took the letter and broke it open. M. Bentinck’s secretary stood with his hat in his hand, eagerly observing the master whom he admired blindly and did not understand.
His first impression was that William had changed considerably. He was of the same stature, having come early to his full height, but of a more robust appearance, though his face still retained a look of delicacy. His air of assured self-containment, his expression of calm gravity had deepened. He had always been sure of himself, now he wore the air of a man sure no less of others, sure of his own influence to sway whom he would to his will.
He had lost some of his repression, it seemed; was no longer equally on his guard as to what he said or how he looked.
As he stood quietly reading his letter he conveyed a personality startlingly masterful and daring. Florent felt as if some one touched him, gripped him, so strong was the influence of the slim and silent figure.
William at length looked up.
His face had slightly altered. He was not so pale, the curved lips were set firmly in an expression of half scorn that seemed habitual, his brilliant eyes were controlled to an unfathomable austerity, and the peculiar cleft in his chin was more noticeable.
He wore slight moustaches in the French style that added to his age, and was dressed for riding even more simply than Florent.
“M. Bentinck is not seriously ill?” he asked.
“No, Highness, a chill—a slight fever——”
“When will he be able to come to the Hague?”