Johannes was on the _qui vive_ for the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's! "Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now." Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat--evidently a master of ceremonies. "I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated--most miserable. The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores. "What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us." "But, Mevrouw, I really cannot." The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration. "Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well." "What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead. In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front--next Lady Crimmetart--sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes. The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly: "National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing--whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes--and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang in _tremolo_ from "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo"--his entire repertory. They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering.