“I prefer to remain so.”
Prigson looked at him, and saw that his mind was made up. But he had one resource left, “Well, I suppose you’re your own master, and can do as you like.... But I’m sorry—I shall have to remind you of what I asked you for the other day.”
Van Arlen put his hand in his breast-pocket, and laid a small parcel on the table before Prigson, “Will you kindly see if that’s all right?” he said.
Prigson was disappointed. He did not need the money—in fact, Van Arlen’s utter inability to pay would have been worth another thousand guilders to him.
“I suppose it’s all right,” he said, glancing over the notes. “There, Van Arlen,” he said, with a sudden change of tone, and a quaver in his voice, “give me your hand, old fellow! you’re better than most men. Good-bye! Stay as you are!”
He left the room, and Van Arlen, finding himself alone, felt like a man saved from shipwreck.
It is some weeks after the first of August. The new official has long been installed, and the Minister does nothing without consulting him. Everything passes through Mr Regenstein’s hands.
It is Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoons, as a rule, it is too hot for a walk; or, if not too hot, it is too cold. If neither too hot nor too cold, it most likely threatens rain; and if none of these three atmospheric conditions prevails,—well, formerly Van Arlen always had urgent work to do. This Sunday, however, he is quite at leisure, and the weather is perfect, but—it is the anniversary of Aunt Cornelia’s death.
Van Arlen looks over the blinds at the passers-by, most of whom are on their way to the Bosch. Here and there a quietly dressed lady, with a Bible in her hand, threads her way through the throng.
“I think I’ll go to afternoon church,” says Caroline. “Will you come, Frederica?”