She gave a great courtesy and hastened into the house, her gold head ornaments tinkling.
Florent Van Mander stole a furtive glance at the officer, who stood contemplating, with unmoved face, a precise bed of striped stocks and southernwood.
Florent wondered what his thoughts were. He longed to ask him concerning the advance of the French, and what his feelings were about the loss of the fortresses on the Rhine and the Yssel, but both his own reserve and the officer’s demeanour came in his way.
So he too gazed at the flowers, and the brass pans shining in the sun, and a fat white cat asleep on the window-sill.
The girl, reappearing, announced in a hushed, respectful voice that M. Beverningh had come down into the parlour and would see them there.
They entered a passage flagged with black and white, and turned into a room at the back of the house.
Florent was aware of a gentleman standing before the fireplace with his head bent on one side.
“Mynheer,” said the officer, “this is Mynheer Van Mander, sent by Mynheer Fagel to His Highness—as His Highness has not yet returned from Amersfoort I brought him to you.”
“Very good,” said Jerome Beverningh. “Will you please sit down, Mynheer?”