He shook hands as
ceremoniously as his brother.
"We have been talking of Fritz," said old Peter.
"Oh yes--of Fritz. To be sure." Melchior answered him vaguely, and
looked at me with a puzzled smile. There was silence in the room till
his brother spoke again. "I have been showing Mr.--Fritz's last
letter."
"Fritz writes entertainingly," murmured Melchior, and seemed to cast
about for another word, but repeated, "--entertainingly. If the state
of your ankle permits, sir, you will perhaps take an interest in our
pictures. I shall be happy to show them to you."
And so, with the occasional support of Melchior's arm, I began a tour of
the house. The pictures indeed were a sufficient reward--seascapes by
Willem Van der Velde, flower-portraits by Willem Van Aslet,
tavern-scenes by Adrian Van Ostade; a notable Cuyp; a small Gerard Dow
of peculiar richness; portraits--the Burgomaster Albert Van der Knoope,
by Thomas de Keyser--the Admiral Nicholas, by Kneller--the Admiral Peter
(grand-uncle of the blind Admiral), by Romney. . . . My guide seemed as
honestly proud of them as insensible of their condition, which was in
almost every case deplorable. By-and-by, in the library we came upon a
modern portrait of a rosy-faced boy in a blue suit, who held (strange
combination!) a large ribstone pippin in one hand and a cricket bat in
the other--a picture altogether of such glaring demerit that I wondered
for a moment why it hung so conspicuously over the fireplace, while
worthier paintings were elbowed into obscure corners.
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