“Did you see the Prince to-day, my father?”
Agneta de Witt dropped her fine sewing into her lap and looked at the Grand Pensionary.
They were together in the garden, under the new golden foliage of the wych elms and limes. The air was filled with a soft and melancholy sunshine; the trees cast faint and moving shadows over the black-clad figure of John de Witt, who leant back in the rustic seat and, his face resting on his hand, gazed at his daughter.
“I saw him this afternoon, Agneta.”
“I thought, sir, that you had.”
“And why?” The Grand Pensionary smiled.
Agneta fixed her pale blue eyes on him anxiously; her colourless, gentle face looked pure and grave as an infant’s in the precise white cap.
“Forgive me, sir—but it is because you have seemed sad.”
“I am tired,” answered John de Witt quietly. “Very tired, Agneta.”
His daughter turned her face away.