Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was an artful man.

He opened on the novice with something quite wide of the mark he was really aiming at.

"The town records," said he, "are crabbedly written, and the ink rusty with age." He offered Gerard the honour of transcribing them fair.
Gerard inquired what he was to be paid.
Ghysbrecht offered a sum that would have just purchased the pens, ink, and parchment.
"But, burgomaster, my labour?
Here is a year's work." "Your labour?
Call you marking parchment labour?
Little sweat goes to that, I trow." "'Tis labour, and skilled labour to boot; and that is better paid in all crafts than rude labour, sweat or no sweat.

Besides, there's my time." "Your time?
Why, what is time to you, at two-and-twenty ?" Then fixing his eyes keenly on Gerard, to mark the effect of his words, he said: "Say, rather, you are idle grown.

You are in love.