“Why should M. de Witt care?” asked Florent.
Van Ouvenaller slightly smiled.
“You do not know him; he cannot bear to feel any against him—if he thinks the people dislike, distrust him, it strikes at his heart. It is the same with the Prince. I swear that since Mynheer took over His Highness’ education his one idea has been to gain his friendship.”
The speaker’s worn, plain face lit; it was clear he admired his master—to a foolish extent Florent thought.
Van Ouvenaller spoke again.
“You have not seen the Prince?”
“No—I am curious.”
The older secretary made no answer. He fixed his eyes on the picture of the garden seen through the straight window, with the afternoon sunshine in the trees and the figure of Agneta de Witt seated in the shade, spinning, her brass-bound Bible beside her.
Florent gazed too.
“This must be dull for M. de Witt’s children.”