It was late afternoon when Basilea had her audience (accorded without difficulty) at the Prince’s villa beyond The Hague, called the ’huis ten bosch’ by reason of the beautiful wood and deer park in which it stood. This house had been built by the Prince’s grandmother, Amalia of Solms, and contained the famous hall which she had decorated in honour of her husband, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry. There was no splendour, however, in the apartments Basilea saw; the appointments were neat and comfortable, but neither lavish nor rich, and she had known English ladies better served as to the quantity and appearance of servants than was the Princess Royal of England. In a room at the back, that overlooked a formal garden filled with roses and box hedges, Basilea found the mistress of the quiet house and the lady whose mind two great kingdoms were anxious to know. It was a chamber panelled in walnut, and furnished by chairs with worked seats and stools with fringed covers, several fine pieces of Eastern furniture, and many shelves on which stood curious and vivid china monsters and vases, and low pots filled with roses. Basilea did not know which of the two young ladies seated by the window was the Princess, so utterly had ten years worked their change. She hesitated after her courtsey, and the taller of the two ladies came forward and took her hand warmly. "Are you Basilea Gage with whom I used to play at Twickenham?" she asked. "Why did you not come to see me sooner?" She smiled half wistfully, and turned to her companion. "This is Mademoiselle Dyckfelt, and this is Madame de Marsac, Anne, whom I told you was coming to-day." She had a timid way of speaking, as if she was shy, and, to Basilea, something of the formal in her manner, as if she was preoccupied. The Dutch lady was like most of her countrywomen whom Basilea had observed, very fair and pretty, with that glow and robust brightness that gave the women of Holland their reputation for handsomeness. She was plainly dressed in grey branched with silver, and was engaged in working a chair-cover in cross stitch. The vivid green and blue of the wools she used showed off her small, plump white hands—a common beauty among her nation. The Princess began talking of England and the people she remembered there; while Basilea answered she observed Mary, who seemed to her disappointingly strange and indifferent. Still little more than a girl, she was extremely beautiful, uniting her father’s aristocratic grace and her mother’s soft charm; though dignified and above the common height, she bore herself humbly and with a deprecating sweetness.