William turned the smile on him and drew him from the room.
M. Bentinck adored the Prince, not more so than many, not more so perhaps than Florent Van Mander, standing unnoticed, unthought of, but William had chosen to bestow on him his friendship.
William Bentinck was intelligent; he had always been blindly loyal to the House of Nassau. He was of a rare good looks and attractiveness, and had been the Prince’s page when they were children. William admitted him to his closest confidence, and was more open with him than with any; none knowing better, however, than William Bentinck, that in any serious matter he had not the slightest influence with his master.
The Prince would do anything to please him in trivial affairs; but he was his own counsellor, those associated with him were no more than the lieutenants of his will.
Without words this was understood between them. Bentinck offered neither advice nor criticism.
His first words when they were alone were characteristic—
“What are you going to do, Highness? In what way can I help you?” he asked eagerly.
William looked at him as if the sight of his glowing handsomeness was a pleasure.
The smile was still on his lips; it seemed as if he would not be drawn into serious questions. His attitude was rather like that of a man to a woman whom he loves but must always with a half laugh condescend to when it concerns the discussion of large issues.
“Tell me of your journey—and sickness,” he said. “You have changed very little,” he added, with a deepening of his smile.