After dinner, as they were sitting on the terrace, they perceived Mr Talm. Mr Talm had on flesh-coloured kid gloves, and an eye-glass prominently fixed in his left eye, the cord waving in the wind like the web of a gigantic spider. Talm was quite presentable, and, being now of opinion that the Van Arlens were presentable also, he accosted them, and was honoured with an invitation to join their party.
Madame thought it would be nice to walk up and down the terrace, and Leida also showed herself pleased with the idea. Talm offered his escort, and Prigson was once more alone with his brother-in-law.
“The business is clinched now, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Van Arlen, “I have been thinking it over, and I must abide by my first answer.”
“That’s a pity,” said Prigson—“a pity for you—for, as I said, the matter will have to be got into shape without you; but I should have liked to have you in it, because I’m heartily sorry for you. Just excuse me a minute,” he went on, rising and signalling to a stranger, who was casting sinister glances at the teacups—“it is my friend Valtoucourt, one of the associate concessionaires.... I’m sorry, for I could have introduced you to each other—in fact, I shall have to do it after all,”—and Prigson, continuing in French, presented Baron de Valtoucourt to his brother-in-law, for whom he invented a high-sounding title on the spur of the moment. Van Arlen had never thought that his name would sound so well in French. But French was not his forte, and now his silence made him seem more solemn than ever; and he was convinced in his soul that Baron Valtoucourt thought him the pivot of all the home and foreign politics of Holland. Prigson did his best to strengthen this hypothetical opinion. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said to the stranger, “if Van Arlen is willing, he can do anything, but he is fond of raising objections—ce cher Van Arlen.”
The stranger muttered, with amazing rapidity, a long French sentence, of which Van Arlen could not seize a word. He therefore confined himself to ejaculating now and then “oui” or “peut-être,” and at the close wrapped himself in a diplomatic silence. His wife and Leida returned with their cavalier; the stranger greeted them with a bow, as deep and solemn as though he were announcing her death-sentence to the Queen of Spain; he then bowed no less deeply to Talm, who, on his part, was not to be outdone, and, deeply impressed by the high solemnity of the occasion, made another low bow before Van Arlen. The latter, having witnessed the performance three times, involuntarily saluted his assistant secretary in a similar manner.
It was, in fact, most impressively solemn.
The stranger was a man who knew life, and could understand that a man might fill a highly important position without being an accomplished French scholar. He therefore slackened the flow of his words, and assured them that he should consider it a great honour to have Van Arlen as a director.
“But,” said Van Arlen, “I never said that!”
“Si, si,” said the stranger, “we understand one another perfectly;” and then he pressed his hand and gave utterance to a friendly wish, whereat Van Arlen (unwilling to acknowledge even to himself that he did not understand) replied, “Nous verrons.”