“You are mistaken, Belotti.”

“Really?  I am glad for your sake, you are a modest artist, but the signorina bears the Hoogstraten name, and that is saying everything.  Do you know her father?”

“No, Belotti.”

“That’s a race-a race!  Have you never heard anything of the story of our signorina’s older sister?”

“Has Henrica an older sister?”

“Yes, sir, and when I think of her.—­Imagine the signorina, exactly like our signorina, only taller, more stately, more beautiful.”

“Isabella!” exclaimed the musician.  A conjecture, which had been aroused since his conversation with Henrica, appeared to be confirmed; he seized the steward’s arm so suddenly and unexpectedly, that the latter drew back, and continued eagerly:  “What do you know of her?  I beseech you, Belotti, tell me all.”

The servant looked up the stairs, then shaking his head, answered: 

“You are probably mistaken.  There has never been an Isabella in this house to my knowledge, but I will gladly place myself at your service.  Come again after sunset, but you must expect to hear no pleasant tale.”

Twilight had scarcely yielded to darkness, when the musician again entered the Hoogstraten mansion.  The little room was empty, but Belotti did not keep him waiting long.

The old man placed a dainty little waiter, bearing a jug of wine and a goblet, on the table beside the lamp and, after informing Wilhelm of the invalids’ condition, courteously offered him a chair.  When the musician asked him why he had not brought a cup for himself too, he replied: 

“I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the liberty to sit down.  The servant who attends to the chambers has left the house, and I’ve done nothing but go up and down stairs all day.  It tries my old legs, and we can expect no quiet night.”

A single candle lighted the little room.  Belotti, who had leaned far back in his chair, opened his clenched hands and slowly began: 

“I spoke this morning of the Hoogstraten race.  Children of the same parents, it is true, are often very unlike, but in your little country, which speaks its own language and has many things peculiar to itself—­you won’t deny that—­every old family has its special traits.  I know, for I have been in many a noble household in Holland.  Every race has its own peculiar blood and ways.  Even where—­by your leave—­there is a crack in the brain, it rarely happens to only one member of a family.  My mistress has more of her French mother’s nature.  But I intended to speak only of the signorina, and am wandering too far from my subject.”

“No, Belotti, certainly not, we have plenty of time, and I shall be glad to listen to you, but first you must answer one question.”

“Why, sir, how your cheeks glow!  Did you meet the signorina in Italy?”

“Perhaps so, Belotti.”

“Why, of course, of course!  Whoever has once seen her, doesn’t easily forget.  What is it you wish to know?”