Under the limes sat Anna de Witt with her spinning-wheel, which made a swift, gentle sound as her foot touched the treadle. The sunshine rested on her smooth yellow hair and white cap, and on her rich but simple grey satin gown.
On a low stool beside her sat Agneta, also in grey, for the daughters of John de Witt were still in mourning for their mother.
About their feet the pigeons gathered and strutted, pearl coloured and white, and grey the hue of Anna’s flax.
John de Witt stood for a moment at the window looking at the quiet little figures under the trees, then he turned away quickly and was about to touch a bell on his table when Jacob de Witt entered the library.
“Ah, I did not know that you were at home, sir,” said the Grand Pensionary.
“I can do very little till the States sit again,” answered the old man, “very little.”
He seated himself by the blue-tiled hearth and clasped his hand round the black stick he carried.
This last month or so had given him his full age; his head trembled a little and his shoulders were bowed.
“You are so seldom here now, John,” he said wistfully.