42 THE KING OF SCHNORRERS.
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No," he admitted curtly.
"But is he?"
" No — at least, not a nobleman."
" What then ? I have to learn about my guests from my servants."
" Apparently."
" Oh ! and you think that's right ! "
" To gossip with your servants? Certainly not."
"If my husband will not tell me anything — if he has only eyes for sedan chairs."
Joseph thought it best to kiss Mrs. Grobstock.
"A fellow- Director, I suppose?" she urged, more mildly.
" A fellow-Israelite. He has promised to come at six."
Manasseh was punctual to the second. Wilkinson ushered him in. The hostess had robed herself in her best to do honour to a situation which her husband awaited with what hope he could. She looked radiant in a gown of blue silk ; her hair was done in a tuft and round her neck was an " esclavage," consisting of festoons of gold chains. The Sabbath table was equally festive with its ponderous silver candelabra, coffee-urn, and consecration cup, its flower- vases, and fruit-salvers. The dining-room itself was a handsome apartment ; its buffets glittered with Venetian glass and Dresden porcelain, and here and there gilt pedestals supported globes of gold and silver fish.
At the first glance at his guest Grobstock's blood ran cold.
Manasseh had not turned a hair, nor changed a single garment. At the next glance Grobstock's blood boiled. A second figure loomed in Manasseh's wake — a short Schnorrer, even dingier than da Costa, and with none of his dignity, a clumsy, stooping Sclmorrer, with a cajoling grin on his mud- coloured, hairy face. Neither removed his headgear.
