Gaspard Fagel pulled at the tulip petals.
“I am your friend,” he declared.
The Grand Pensionary gave him a quiet look.
“Yes, your friend,” Fagel repeated defiantly. “Do not think because I follow the Prince that I am no friend to you. I have much, very much to be grateful to you for. I—” he hesitated a second—“I should like to do you a service now.”
By now John de Witt had turned his eyes from him to the pattern of blue sky to be seen through the intertwisting leaves and branches of the elms and limes.
Gaspard Fagel stuck his fingers into his sash.
“In this state we are in,” he said, “we cannot afford internal dissension.”
The phrase sounded trite to M. de Witt; he raised his long hand on the arm of the chair and let it fall again.
“I am ambitious,” continued M. Fagel, “to be a mediator——”
“Well?”