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He crossed the Singel, and stopped for a moment on the bridge of the Heerengracht to watch the men of a flower barge eat their dinner of bread and herring at an open table. He turned left on the Keizersgracht, passed the long row of narrow Flemish dwellings, and found himself in front of the short, stone steps and black railing of the Reverend Stricker’s house. He remembered the first time he had stood there, at the beginning of his Amsterdam adventure, and he realized that there are some cities in which men are forever ill-fated.

He had rushed all the way up the Damrak and across the Centre at top speed; now that he arrived he felt a fear and hesitancy about entering. He looked upward and noticed the iron hook sticking out above the attic window. He thought what an excellent opportunity it afforded for a man to hang himself.

He traversed the wide, red brick pavement and stood on the curb, looking down into the canal. He knew that the next hour would determine the whole course of his external life. If he could only see Kay, talk to her, make her understand, everything would work out. But the father of a young girl possessed the key to the front door. Supposed the Reverend Stricker refused to admit him.

A sand barge came slowly upstream, being pushed to its nightly anchorage. There was a trail of moist yellow sand over the black side where the cargo had been shovelled out of the hollow. Vincent noticed that there was no wash strung from stern to prow, and idly wondered why. A thin, bony man stuck the side of his chest to the pole, and leaning against it heavily, pushed his way down the catwalk while the thick, clumsy boat slipped upstream from under him. A woman in a dirty apron sat at the stern, like a piece of water-carved stone, the hand behind her guiding the clumsy tiller. A little boy, a girl, and a filthy white dog stood on top of the cabin and gazed at the houses along the Keizersgracht wistfully.

Vincent mounted the five stone steps and rang the bell. After a moment the maid came. She peered at Vincent standing in the shadows, recognized him and thrust her adequate bulk into the doorway.

“Is the Reverend Stricker at home?” asked Vincent.

“No. He’s out.” She had received her orders.

Vincent heard voices inside. He pushed the woman aside brusquely.

“Get out of my way,” he said.

The maid followed him and tried to bar his entrance.

“The family is at dinner,” she protested. “You can’t go in.”

Vincent walked down the long hall and stepped into the dining room. As he did so he saw the very end of a familiar black dress disappear through the other door. The Reverend Stricker, his Aunt Wilhelmina, and the two younger children were at the table. Five places had been laid. At the place where the empty chair was pushed back at a crooked angle, there was a plate of broiled veal, whole potatoes, and string beans.

“I couldn’t stop him, sir,” said the maid. “He just pushed his way in.”

There were two silver candlesticks on the table, with tall white candles giving off the only light. Calvin, hanging on the wall, looked eerie in the yellow glow. The silver service from the carved sideboard gleamed in the darkness, and Vincent noticed the little high window under which he had first spoken to Kay.

“Well, Vincent,” said his uncle, “you seem to have less manners every day.”

“I want to speak to Kay.”

“She’s not here. She’s visiting with friends.”

“She was sitting in this place when I rang the bell. She had begun her dinner.”

Stricker turned to his wife. “Take the children out of the room.”

“Now, Vincent,” he said, “you are causing a great deal of trouble. Not only I, but everyone else in the family has completely lost patience with you. You’re a tramp, an idler, a boor, and as far as I can see, an ungrateful, vicious character. How dare you even presume to love my daughter? It is an insult to me.”

“Let me see Kay, Uncle Stricker. I want to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She never wants to lay eyes on you again!”

“Kay said that?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Stricker was aghast. It was the first time he had been accused of lying since he had been ordained.

“How dare you say that I am not telling the truth!”

“I’ll never believe that until I hear it from her own lips. And even then I won’t.”

“When I think of all the precious time and money I wasted on you here in Amsterdam.”

Vincent sank wearily into the chair Kay had just vacated, and rested both his arms on the table.