"Who is anything to you?" It was softly and insidiously spoken, but it awoke no echo.
"Varnhart's children," she answered him, instantly. "And old Annémie by the wharfside—and Tambour—and Antoine's grave—and the starling—and, of course, above all, the flowers."
"And the fairies, I suppose?—though they do nothing for you."
She looked at him eagerly,—
"They have done something to-day. I have found a box, and some stockings—such beautiful stockings! Silk ones! Is it not very odd?"
"It is more odd they should have forgotten you so long. May I see them?"
"I cannot show them to you now. Those ladies are going to buy. But you can see them later—if you wait."
"I will wait and paint the Broodhuis."
"So many people do that; you are a painter then?"
"Yes—in a way."