den
in the very heart of the forest. Had she commanded the exquisite Chinese
embroideries, the wonderful decorations from China and Japan, and the
lovely old china? I wouldn't ask, for if she had had nothing to do with
that part, I didn't wish to know.

In the octagonal Orange Salon where the twenty-six Powers met to make
peace, and where the walls and cupola are a riot of paintings in praise
of Frederic Henry and his relations, we strained our necks to see the
pictures, and our brains to recall who the people were and what they
had done; but even the portrait of Motley, which we'd just passed, and
the knowledge that he wrote in this very house did not always prod our
memories.

Robert would not let us stay long at the House in the Wood. He took us
to see the site of the Palace of Peace, which Mr. Carnegie's money and a
little of other people's will build, and then flashed us on to The Hague
in time to reach the Mauritshuis as it opened.

Robert didn't pretend to know much about the pictures, though he was
patriotically proud of them, as among the best to be found, if you
searched the world. But the fiancee was in her element. "Tired to death"
of these splendid things she might be, in her small soul, but she was
determined to impress us with her artistic knowledge.

"I know exactly where all the best pictures are," she said, motioning
away the official guides, "and I will take you to them."

She had a practical, energetic air, and her black eyes were sharp behind
her _pince-nez_. I felt I could not be introduced by her to the glorious
company of great men, and basely I slipped away from the party, leaving
Phil to follow with outward humility and inward rebellion--a martyr to
politeness.

Oh, how glad I was to be left alone with the pictures, with nobody to
tell me anything about them! I flew back to buy a catalogue, and then,
carefully dodging my friends, whose backs I spied from time to time, I
gave myself up to happiness.

I didn't want to see the Madonnas and nymphs and goddesses, and Italian
scenes, which a certain school conscientiously produced, because in
their day it was the fashion. I wanted only the characteristically Dutch
artists, the men who loved their dear Hollow Land, putting her beyond
all, glorifying her, and painting what they knew with their hearts as
well as eyes--the daily life of home; the rich brown dusk of humble
rooms; the sea, the sky, the gentle, flat landscape, the pleasant
domestic