Agneta pursed up her mouth.
“Maria cannot write because John spills the ink, he spoilt my letter to Uncle Cornelius this morning.”
The Grand Pensionary caught his breath and turned away quickly to the mantelshelf.
He leant there, looking down into the empty hearth.
“Father,” Maria lifted a flushed face, “how do you spell ‘trouble’?”
John de Witt glanced up and gazed at her.
“What need hast thou for that word, Maria?”
“She is very ignorant,” said her brother scornfully; “I know how to spell it,” and he struggled to wrest the pen from her.
“Thou needest not use the word trouble to thy uncle,” said Jacob de Witt.
“I write—‘There is much trouble at the Hague’; is it not true, father?”