Van Arlen shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind a comic opera—not if it’s really comic,” he said.
“Come along, then—you’re sure to like Don Pasquale.”
“No, I can’t—another time, perhaps—I’ve too much to do to-night,” said Van Arlen, absently looking at the alabaster clock that did not go, but nevertheless seemed able to tell him that it was now his time.
“Yes,” said his wife, “and if we’re to go to the opera we shall have to dress.”
“Hortense! Hortense!” said Prigson, with a mischievous glance.
“What do you mean, Prigson? Of course I can’t let the girls go to the opera with a strange gentleman. I’ve always done my best, brother, to give my daughters a good bringing-up.”
Prigson was too polite to answer; Van Arlen had folded his hands,—his wife did the same, and soliloquised in silence.
“Six of the ten tarts left over ... perhaps the confectioner would take them back ... at any rate, one might try. Leentje might go and see.... The opera ... that has not happened in the last ten years—what are we to do about dresses?—we shall have to be quick about it.... Amen.”
Her reflections were brought to an abrupt conclusion, for Van Arlen had opened his eyes with a sigh, and once more saw Prigson before him. Oh! what would he not have given not to see him—to have opened his eyes in the consciousness that he had been sleeping! Sleeping, from the moment of meeting his brother-in-law in the street; sleeping, when the latter reminded him of the debt, when he had been alone after Prigson’s departure, when Van Teuten stood over him; sleeping, too, that last quarter of an hour, when he stood before his desk after Van Teuten had left him.... But he had not slept—all, all was real ... and then to go to a comic opera on the top of that!
“Excuse me, Prigson, but I must go back to work immediately, there are some documents wanted in a hurry.”