“Yes—but really comic, good comedy?”
“Oh, yes, very good,” said mamma.
Van Arlen’s position was too important for him to let himself be guided by any chance person who chose to label an opera as comic. A thing must really be what it is given out for.
“I suppose you care nothing at all for tragedy, then?” remarked Prigson.
“Well, not altogether that, but a tragedy must be really tragic.”
The conversation, of which some fragments are thus reported, will scarcely make the reader long to hear the rest. The Van Arlens consistently kept up their depreciation of sour grapes, to the great delight of Prigson, who amused himself by defending all sorts of paradoxes. But though the hands of the alabaster clock unchangeably pointed to half-past one, it was getting late. Uncle Van Noost Prigson prepared to take his leave, and Van Arlen made no great effort to detain him. He thought his brother-in law a good fellow, and, under certain circumstances, an indispensable person; to-day, however, Prigson reminded him of so much that he would willingly have forgotten, that his presence became well-nigh intolerable. He breathed more freely when Prigson got up to go; and it was with a certain cheerfulness that he remarked, as he looked out at the front door at the stars, “I see you’ve a fine night.”
“We’ll hope so,” said Prigson; “but now, business for a moment. I asked you for something this morning—not for the sake of embarrassing you, but of getting myself out of a hole. When can I have that money?”
“Will to-morrow evening do?” asked Van Arlen, with a sigh of thankfulness that it was no longer in his pocket.
“Don’t let it be later than that—you know you’ve always told me I could have it when I liked, otherwise I shouldn’t have asked at such a moment.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble to me!” said Van Arlen, though he was wondering all the time where the money was to come from.