“This oaf—­as I must say you justly term him, for you are a good clever woman, Koosje, as I can testify after the experience of years—­has proved that he can be false; he has shown that he can throw away substance for shadow (for, of a truth, that poor, pretty child would make a sad wife for a poor man); yet it is better you should know it now than at some future date, when—­when there might be other ties to make the knowledge more bitter to you.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Koosje, passing the back of her hand across her trembling lips.  She could not shed tears over her trouble; her eyes were dry and burning, as if anger had scorched the blessed drops up ere they should fall.  She went on washing up the cups and saucers, or at least the cup and saucer, and other articles the professor had used for his tea; and after a few minutes’ silence he spoke again.

“What are you going to do?  Punish her, or turn her out, or what?”

“I shall let him—­marry her,” replied Koosje, with a portentous nod.

The old gentleman couldn’t help laughing.  “You think he will pay off your old scores?”

“Before long,” answered Koosje, grimly, “she will find him out—­as I have done.”

Then, having finished washing the tea-things, which the professor had shuddered to behold in her angry hands, she whirled herself out of the room and left him alone.

“Oh, these women—­these women!” he cried, in confidence, to the pictures and skeletons.  “What a worry they are!  An old bachelor has the best of it in the main, I do believe.  But oh, Jan van der Welde, what a donkey you must be to get yourself mixed up in such a broil! and yet—­ah!”

The fossilised old gentleman broke off with a sigh as he recalled the memory of a certain dead-and-gone romance which had happened—­goodness only knows how many years before—­when he, like Jan van der Welde, would have thrown the world away for a glance of a certain pair of blue eyes, at the bidding of a certain English tongue, whose broken Nederlandsche taal was to him the sweetest music ever heard on earth—­sweeter even than the strains of the Stradivari when from under his skilful fingers rose the perfect melodies of old masters.  Ay, but the sweet eyes had been closed in death many a long, long, year, the sweet voice hushed in silence.  He had watched the dear life ebb away, the fire in the blue eyes fade out.  He had felt each day that the clasp of the little greeting fingers was less close; each day he had seen the outline of the face grow sharper; and at last there had come one when the poor little English-woman met him with the gaze of one who knew him not, and babbled, not of green fields, but of horses and dogs, and of a brother Jack, who, five years before, had gone down with her Majesty’s ship Alligator in mid-Atlantic.

Ay, but that was many and many a year agone.  His young, blue-eyed love stood out alone in life’s history, a thing apart.  Of the gentler sex, in a general way, the old professor had not seen that which had raised it in his estimation to the level of the one woman over whose memory hung a bright halo of romance.