“A friend of yours, Oliver! Welcome—welcome to everything in my house,” says Niklaas with Flemish hospitality, giving Guy cordial greeting. “Captain Amati is known to the Doña Hermoine, and as the Duke’s secretary—” It is unnecessary to say more; at mention of the Viceroy’s daughter Miss Wilhelmina most affably seconds her father’s hospitality and extends her white fingers for Spanish welcome. These Guy, making no mistake this time, kisses, perhaps lingering a shade too long over the soft, fair hand for the pleasure of his friend Oliver. Then the merchant cries out suddenly with Flemish primitiveness: “Chairs, Wilhelmina; chairs for the gentlemen!” “Father!” remarks the young lady haughtily, “you forget we have lackeys in the house,” and, ringing a hand bell, orders the serving man to place seats for the cavaliers. “Oh, ho! more foreign airs!” jeers the old gentleman snappishly, apparently taking up a discussion that has been dropped. “Don’t forget Flanders simplicity, my daughter. Though your father is called a millionaire, perhaps he won’t be a millionaire long, with that accursed tenth penny tax,” adds Niklaas, grinding his teeth. “You come from Brussels, Señor Antony,” interrupts the young lady, adopting the Spanish style of address. “While there I presume, as the Duke’s under-secretary, you met the Duchess of Aerschot. She arrives in Antwerp to-day, and gives an entertainment to-morrow evening. You will be there, I presume, Captain Amati, also Señor Oliver?” “Unfortunately I leave Antwerp this evening,” answers Guy. “And under-secretaries and heralds are not invited,” remarks the painter, apparently by no means pleased at the idea. “You’ll go, I presume, Freule Bodé Volcker?” suggests Guy, persuasively. “Your dance, I believe, is much admired.” “Of course,” murmurs the young lady, nonchalantly. “Of course not!” cries the Flemish father with the air of a Roman one. “Papa!” “Verdomd! Do you suppose I’ll have you, my young lady, keep my carriage horses out again as you did last night, so that they went to sleep in the goods van this morning! The Countess of Mansfeld’s yesterday and the Duchess of Aerschot’s to-morrow and you not up until dinner to-day. My servants eating me out of house and home; you haven’t kept your household accounts for a week! Don’t answer me, miss, I have looked at your market book, not written up—not written up—no commercial ideas! But let me tell you,” adds the old gentleman, “if this happens again, down you come at eight in the morning and attend to women customers in the wareroom,” he points toward the commercial end of the house. “Remember that!” And bottling up his wrath, Papa Bodé Volcker makes adieu to Guy and Oliver, remarking that he must attend to business if none of the rest of the family do, but dragging off the snickering boy Jakob.