"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 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
