“I don’t understand you, Prigson; if you mean my Order, I make it a point of honour to wear it, and I don’t like its being made a joke of.”
“A joke, my dear fellow? I have the most fervent respect for all orders of knighthood—especially if they are sent home on St Nicholas’ Eve.... Come in! Beg pardon—I forgot this was your place. Can I stay?”
Van Arlen glanced at the door,—it was only a clerk with documents, and Prigson was suffered to remain while the clerk waited and the official signed.
“This is the sort of thing that goes on all day long.”
“Well—it seems to me you earn your money pretty easily. But say, Van ... I suppose no one can hear us talking here?”
“No one.”
“Well,—it doesn’t matter to me, but I shouldn’t like it on your account,—I want some money.”
Van Arlen drew the palm of his hand across his forehead, and stared at his brother-in-law without answering.
“I’m so fearfully in debt that I don’t want to give the alarm. I should be much obliged if you could let me have those thousand florins I lent you. In a month or two you can have them again, if you want; but I’ve got to live till then, and I have nothing left.”
“It comes at a very inconvenient time, Prigson.”