“But be careful not to soil it; and don’t forget that the ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so—because it’s a ghost, you see.”
“Yes, mother, I’ll make it white.”
“Good. And you’ll make the lady there yellow?” pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.
“No, no,” cried Walter quickly, “she was blue!”
“She was? Who was?”
“I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her—this one—Ophelia—I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow.”
“So far as I’m concerned,” the mother said, “but don’t soil it!”
Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.
It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words “Theatre” and “Player”; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.
“You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there’s nothing to be learned from them; but there are comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them—even respectable people!”