“You evidently don’t know what the life of a Government official is,” said Van Arlen, with a contemptuous smile at the mention of harder work than his.
“Oh, dear, no!” said his wife; and the daughters looked in consternation at the man who had dared to cast the slightest doubt on the extent and importance of papa’s duties.
“Well, what now, Van Arlen?” said Prigson, seeing that his brother-in-law seemed once more lost in a brown study, “are you off to that office of yours again? You had better come to the opera with us this evening; that is to say, if these ladies are inclined to come.”
A cold shudder—but it was one of delight—completely overpowered the self-control of Frederica and Marie. They scarcely knew the opera, except by name,—papa never went there,—and it was very long since they had been invited by any one else.
“The opera?” said Van Arlen, “I don’t care about that; it’s a sin against common sense.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Prigson, perplexed.
“Why, all the people there die singing—I can’t get over that.”
“Eh?” said Prigson, evidently much taken aback; “well, I never thought about that. But now I do think about it, I should say that the opera is the most natural picture of life. There are so many people that weep and wail all their lives; is that so very much more unnatural than that they should sing when they die? But, granting that it is as you say, let’s go to an opera in which nobody dies. Isn’t Don Pasquale on to-night, young ladies?”
“I think so, uncle,” answered Frederica, blushing, for none of the girls even thought of looking at the theatrical announcements. What was the good?
“Yes, yes—Don Pasquale. Come, Van Arlen—that’s a comic opera—just the thing for you!”