John de Witt stood quite still. The black velvet and falling lace collar threw into relief his romantic good looks; the candid and melancholy features that were strangely unlined and simple in expression for one whose years had been so laboriously full.
He looked less than his years, partly by reason of the heavy brown hair that still fell so thickly on to his shoulders, and the full but shapely mouth whose lips lay together with a fresh and youthful set of gentleness.
“Who is it you will write to, Mynheer?” asked Van Ouvenaller.
“To M. Beverningh.”
“And to His Highness?”
“No,” answered John de Witt.
The hot stillness had a lulling quality; lassitude was in the perfume of the silent darkness.
For once John de Witt seemed reluctant to turn to his work. He stood with one hand resting on the mullions and his eyes were dreamy.
M. Van Ouvenaller yawned.
“I remember,” remarked the Grand Pensionary, “how it was said to me—twenty years ago—when I took up this office—‘Thou must not care henceforth, whether thou be laid in thy coffin whole or in pieces.’”