“In what, resident?”
“But first tell me: aren’t you well? You’ve not been looking very fit lately.”
“It’s nothing serious,” she said, with a dreary laugh. “It’ll pass. What can I help you in, resident?”
“There’s something to be done, mevrouwtje, and we can’t manage without you. My wife herself was saying this morning, ‘Better ask Mrs. Eldersma.’”
“But tell me what it is.”
“You know Mrs. Staats, the station-master’s widow. The poor woman has been left without a thing, except her five children and some debts.”
“He committed suicide, didn’t he?”
“Yes, it’s very sad. And we really must help her. There’s a lot of money needed. Sending round a subscription-list won’t bring in much. People are very generous, but they’ve already made such sacrifices lately. They went mad at the fancy-fair. They can’t do much for the moment, so near the end of the month. But, early next month, in the first week of January, mevrouwtje, some theatricals by your Thalia society: you know, nothing elaborate, a couple of drawing-room sketches and no expenses. Seats at a guilder and a half, two guilders and a half, perhaps, and, if you set it going, the hall will be full; people will come over from Surabaya. You must help me, you will, won’t you?”
“But, resident,” said Eva, wearily, “we’ve just had those tableaux-vivants. Don’t be angry with me, but I don’t care to be always acting.”
“Yes, yes, you must this time,” Van Oudijck insisted, a little imperiously, greatly excited about his plan.