“Of course it’s her fault,” he argued, “not that of the tea. How could it be?—best Java imported.”
“Uncle Jacóbus,” began Ursula, emboldened by this approval, “I don’t care about the opera to-morrow. I’d as lief stay at home.” Her hand trembled, and she blushed crimson.
Mynheer Mopius set down his teacup cautiously, for it was best Japan. “Well, of all the deceiving minxes!” he said. “And to hear her go on this afternoon in the carriage! Ursula, you are insincere.”
Mevrouw Mopius sat quite motionless. Her niece did not venture to glance her way.
“Well, of course,” said Mynheer, in the silence, “you must know. I’m not such a fool as to waste my money, and no thanks for my pains. After I’d sent round to the stationer’s, too, for the book of words you said you would like to have. I’m very much disappointed in you, Ursula. I can’t make it out.”
“Operas aren’t really good,” piped Mevrouw Mopius’s tremulous voice. “They’re not a bit like real life. I never had anything happen to me like an opera.”
Mynheer Mopius slapped his knee. “I have it,” he cried; “it’s some religious nonsense of your father’s. Well, if it don’t rise to the surface quicker, there can’t be much of it. Come along, wife, I can’t bear to think of her. Come along; let’s play and sing.”
Mevrouw Mopius staggered to her feet. Ursula remained in the half-light of the front room. Husband and wife spent the rest of the evening at the piano.
“Dear love, for thee I would lay down my li-i-ife,
For without thee what would that life avail?
If thy hand but lift the fatal kni-i-ife,
I smile, I faint, and bid sweet death all hail,”
sang Mynheer Mopius. And Ursula listened. And Mevrouw Mopius played.