“Well, Becky, when shall we be dancing at your wedding?”

Becky shook her curls.  Her young men could not have a poorer opinion of one another than Becky had of them all.  Their homage pleased her, though it did not raise them in her esteem.  Lovers grew like blackberries—­only more so; for they were an evergreen stock.  Or, as her mother put it in her coarse, peasant manner. Chasanim were as plentiful as the street-dogs.  Becky’s beaux sat on the stairs before she was up and became early risers in their love for her, each anxious to be the first to bid their Penelope of the buttonholes good morrow.  It was said that Kosminski’s success as a “sweater” was due to his beauteous Becky, the flower of sartorial youth gravitating to the work-room of this East London Laban.  What they admired in Becky was that there was so much of her.  Still it was not enough to go round, and though Becky might keep nine lovers in hand without fear of being set down as a flirt, a larger number of tailors would have been less consistent with prospective monogamy.

“I’m not going to throw myself away like Fanny,” said she confidentially to Pesach Weingott in the course of the evening.  He smiled apologetically.  “Fanny always had low views,” continued Becky.  “But I always said I would marry a gentleman.”

“And I dare say,” answered Pesach, stung into the retort, “Fanny could marry a gentlemen, too, if she wanted.”

Becky’s idea of a gentleman was a clerk or a school-master, who had no manual labor except scribbling or flogging.  In her matrimonial views Becky was typical.  She despised the status of her parents and looked to marry out of it.  They for their part could not understand the desire to be other than themselves.

“I don’t say Fanny couldn’t,” she admitted.  “All I say is, nobody could call this a luck-match.”

“Ah, thou hast me too many flies in thy nose,” reprovingly interposed Mrs. Belcovitch, who had just crawled up.  “Thou art too high-class.”

Becky tossed her head.  “I’ve got a new dolman,” she said, turning to one of her young men who was present by special grace.  “You should see me in it.  I look noble.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Belcovitch proudly.  “It shines in the sun.”

“Is it like the one Bessie Sugarman’s got?” inquired the young man.

“Bessie Sugarman!” echoed Becky scornfully.  “She gets all her things from the tallyman.  She pretends to be so grand, but all her jewelry is paid for at so much a week.”

“So long as it is paid for,” said Fanny, catching the words and turning a happy face on her sister.

“Not so jealous, Alte,” said her mother.  “When I shall win on the lottery, I will buy thee also a dolman.”