“Do you think it’s a good match?” said Miriam Hyams, indicating Sam Levine with a movement of the eyebrow.

A swift, scornful look flitted across Hannah’s face.  “Among the Jews,” she said, “every match is a grand Shidduch before the marriage; after, we hear another tale.”

“There is a good deal in that,” admitted Miriam, thoughtfully.  “The girl’s family cries up the capture shamelessly.  I remember when Clara Emanuel was engaged, her brother Jack told me it was a splendid Shidduch.  Afterwards I found he was a widower of fifty-five with three children.”

“But that engagement went off,” said Hannah.

“I know,” said Miriam.  “I’m only saying I can’t fancy myself doing anything of the kind.”

“What! breaking off an engagement?” said Hannah, with a cynical little twinkle about her eye.

“No, taking a man like that,” replied Miriam.  “I wouldn’t look at a man over thirty-five, or with less than two hundred and fifty a year.”

“You’ll never marry a teacher, then,” Hannah remarked.

“Teacher!” Miriam Hyams repeated, with a look of disgust.  “How can one be respectable on three pounds a week?  I must have a man in a good position.”  She tossed her piquant nose and looked almost handsome.  She was five years older than Hannah, and it seemed an enigma why men did not rush to lay five pounds a week at her daintily shod feet.

“I’d rather marry a man with two pounds a week if I loved him,” said Hannah in a low tone.

“Not in this century,” said Miriam, shaking her head incredulously.  “We don’t believe in that nonsense now-a-days.  There was Alice Green,—­she used to talk like that,—­now look at her, riding about in a gig side by side with a bald monkey.”

“Alice Green’s mother,” interrupted Malka, pricking up her ears, “married a son of Mendel Weinstein by his third wife, Dinah, who had ten pounds left her by her uncle Shloumi.”

“No, Dinah was Mendel’s second wife,” corrected Mrs. Jacobs, cutting short a remark of Mrs. Phillips’s in favor of the new interest.

“Dinah was Mendel’s third wife,” repeated Malka, her tanned cheeks reddening.  “I know it because my Simon, God bless him, was breeched the same month.”

Simon was Malka’s eldest, now a magistrate in Melbourne.

“His third wife was Kitty Green, daughter of the yellow Melammed,” persisted the Rebbitzin.  “I know it for a fact, because Kitty’s sister Annie was engaged for a week to my brother-in-law Nathaniel.”

“His first wife,” put in Malka’s husband, with the air of arbitrating between the two, “was Shmool the publican’s eldest daughter.”

“Shmool the publican’s daughter,” said Malka, stirred to fresh indignation, “married Hyam Robins, the grandson of old Benjamin, who kept the cutlery shop at the corner of Little Eden Alley, there where the pickled cucumber store stands now.”

“It was Shmool’s sister that married Hyam Robins, wasn’t it, mother?” asked Milly, incautiously.