I am afraid I was not listening.  My chair faced the window, and as I glanced at the letter in my hands enough light filtered through the transparent “foreign” paper to throw up the watermark, and it bore the name of an English firm.

This small discovery, quite unwillingly made, gave me a sudden sense of shame, as though I had been playing some dishonourable trick.  I was hastily folding up the paper, to return it, when the door opened and Wilhelmina came in, with her uncle Melchior.

She seemed to divine in an instant what had happened; threw a swift glance at the blind Admiral, and almost as swiftly took the letter from my hand and restored it to the packet.  The next moment, with perfect coolness she was introducing me to her uncle Melchior.

Melchior Van der Knoope was perhaps ten years younger than his brother, and carried his tall figure buttoned up tightly in an old-fashioned frockcoat:  a mummy of a man, with a fixed air of mild bewilderment and a trick of running his left hand through his white hair—­due, no doubt, to everlasting difficulty with the family accounts.  He shook hands as ceremoniously as his brother.

“We have been talking of Fritz,” said old Peter.

“Oh yes—­of Fritz.  To be sure.”  Melchior answered him vaguely, and looked at me with a puzzled smile.  There was silence in the room till his brother spoke again.  “I have been showing Mr.—­Fritz’s last letter.”

“Fritz writes entertainingly,” murmured Melchior, and seemed to cast about for another word, but repeated, “—­entertainingly.  If the state of your ankle permits, sir, you will perhaps take an interest in our pictures.  I shall be happy to show them to you.”

And so, with the occasional support of Melchior’s arm, I began a tour of the house.  The pictures indeed were a sufficient reward—­seascapes by Willem Van der Velde, flower-portraits by Willem Van Aslet, tavern-scenes by Adrian Van Ostade; a notable Cuyp; a small Gerard Dow of peculiar richness; portraits—­the Burgomaster Albert Van der Knoope, by Thomas de Keyser—­the Admiral Nicholas, by Kneller—­the Admiral Peter (grand-uncle of the blind Admiral), by Romney. . . .  My guide seemed as honestly proud of them as insensible of their condition, which was in almost every case deplorable.  By-and-by, in the library we came upon a modern portrait of a rosy-faced boy in a blue suit, who held (strange combination!) a large ribstone pippin in one hand and a cricket bat in the other—­a picture altogether of such glaring demerit that I wondered for a moment why it hung so conspicuously over the fireplace, while worthier paintings were elbowed into obscure corners.  Then with a sudden inkling I glanced at Uncle Melchior.  He nodded gravely.

“That is Fritz.”

I pulled out my watch.  “I believe,” I said, “it must be time for me to bid your brother good-bye.”

“You need be in no hurry,” said Miss Wilhelmina’s voice behind me.  “The last train to Aber has gone at least ten minutes since.  You must dine and sleep with us to-night.”