“That is what she thinks me,” thought Mrs. Hyams.  But she said nothing.

“Did you not see Daniel with her at the ball?” said Mr. Hyams, still visibly disquieted.

“I’m sure I didn’t notice,” Miriam replied petulantly.  “I think you must have forgot the sugar, mother, or else the tea is viler than usual.  Why don’t you let Jane cut the bread and butter instead of lazing in the kitchen?”

“Jane has been washing all day in the scullery,” said Mrs. Hyams apologetically.

“H’m!” snapped Miriam, her pretty face looking peevish and careworn.  “Jane ought to have to manage sixty-three girls whose ignorant parents let them run wild at home, and haven’t the least idea of discipline.  As for this chit of a Sugarman, don’t you know that Jews always engage every fellow and girl that look at each other across the street, and make fun of them and discuss their united prospects before they are even introduced to each other.”

She finished her tea, changed her dress and went off to the theatre with a girl-friend.  The really harassing nature of her work called for some such recreation.  Daniel came in a little after she had gone out, and ate his supper, which was his dinner saved for him and warmed up in the oven.  Mendel sat studying from an unwieldy folio which he held on his lap by the fireside and bent over.  When Daniel had done supper and was standing yawning and stretching himself, Mendel said suddenly as if trying to bluff him: 

“Why don’t you ask your father to wish you Mazzoltov?”

“Mazzoltov?  What for?” asked Daniel puzzled.

“On your engagement.”

“My engagement!” repeated Daniel, his heart thumping against his ribs.

“Yes—­to Bessie Sugarman.”

Mendel’s eye, fixed scrutinizingly on his boy’s face, saw it pass from white to red and from red to white.  Daniel caught hold of the mantel as if to steady himself.

“But it is a lie!” he cried hotly.  “Who told you that?”

“No one; a man hinted as much.”

“But I haven’t even been in her company.”

“Yes—­at the Purim Ball.”

Daniel bit his lip.

“Damned gossips!” he cried.  “I’ll never speak to the girl again.”

There was a tense silence for a few seconds, then old Hyams said: 

“Why not?  You love her.”

Daniel stared at him, his heart palpitating painfully.  The blood in his ears throbbed mad sweet music.

“You love her,” Mendel repeated quietly.  “Why do you not ask her to marry you?  Do you fear she would refuse?”

Daniel burst into semi-hysterical laughter.  Then seeing his father’s half-reproachful, half-puzzled look he said shamefacedly: 

“Forgive me, father, I really couldn’t help it.  The idea of your talking about love!  The oddity of it came over me all of a heap.”

“Why should I not talk about love?”