He called her mother, not because he had any children, but because she had, and it seemed a pity to multiply domestic nomenclature.

“Well, my little one,” said Malka, hugging him fondly.  “Have you made a good journey this time?”

“No, trade is so dull.  People won’t put their hands in their pockets.  And here?”

“People won’t take their hands out of their pockets, lazy dogs!  Everybody is striking,—­Jews with them.  Unheard-of things!  The bootmakers, the capmakers, the furriers!  And now they say the tailors are going to strike; more fools, too, when the trade is so slack.  What with one thing and another (let me put your cravat straight, my little love), it’s just the people who can’t afford to buy new clothes that are hard up, so that they can’t afford to buy second-hand clothes either.  If the Almighty is not good to us, we shall come to the Board of Guardians ourselves.”

“Not quite so bad as that, mother,” laughed Michael, twirling the massive diamond ring on his finger.  “How’s baby?  Is it ready to be redeemed?”

“Which baby?” said Malka, with well-affected agnosticism.

“Phew!” whistled Michael.  “What’s up now, mother?”

“Nothing, my pet, nothing.”

“Well, I’m going across.  Come along, mother.  Oh, wait a minute.  I want to brush this mud off my trousers.  Is the clothes-brush here?”

“Yes, dearest one,” said the unsuspecting Malka.

Michael winked imperceptibly, flicked his trousers, and without further parley ran across the diagonal to Milly’s house.  Five minutes afterwards a deputation, consisting of a char-woman, waited upon Malka and said: 

“Missus says will you please come over, as baby is a-cryin’ for its grandma.”

“Ah, that must be another pin,” said Malka, with a gleam of triumph at her victory.  But she did not budge.  At the end of five minutes she rose solemnly, adjusted her wig and her dress in the mirror, put on her bonnet, brushed away a non-existent speck of dust from her left sleeve, put a peppermint in her mouth, and crossed the Square, carrying the clothes-brush in her hand.  Milly’s door was half open, but she knocked at it and said to the char-woman: 

“Is Mrs. Phillips in?”

“Yes, mum, the company’s all upstairs.”

“Oh, then I will go up and return her this myself.”

Malka went straight through the little crowd of guests to Milly, who was sitting on a sofa with Ezekiel, quiet as a lamb and as good as gold, in her arms.

“Milly, my dear,” she said.  “I have come to bring you back your clothes-brush.  Thank you so much for the loan of it.”

“You know you’re welcome, mother,” said Milly, with unintentionally dual significance.  The two ladies embraced.  Ephraim Phillips, a sallow-looking, close-cropped Pole, also kissed his mother-in-law, and the gold chain that rested on Malka’s bosom heaved with the expansion of domestic pride.  Malka thanked God she was not a mother of barren or celibate children, which is only one degree better than personal unfruitfulness, and testifies scarce less to the celestial curse.