Only old Solomon at the head of the table, mumbling and droning out the long grace in his corrupt Hebrew—his great face impenetrably grave—appeared to take any interest in the proceeding, with perhaps the exception of his son Samuel, who joined in now and then from beneath the drooping shelter of his table-napkin.
Bertie stared and Bertie wondered. Needless to state, he was completely out of touch with these people whose faith his search for the true religion had led him, for the time being, to embrace.
Grace over, the women went up stairs, the men, with the exception of old Solomon, remaining behind to smoke.
Bertie, who was thoroughly tired out, soon rose to go.
“I will make your excuses up stairs,” said Reuben.
But the polite little man preferred to go to the drawing-room and perform his farewells in person.
“Thanks so much,” he said in the hall, where Leo and Reuben were speeding him.
“I hope you have been edified—that’s all.” Reuben laughed.
“I am deeply interested in the Jewish character,” answered Bertie; “the strongly marked contrasts; the underlying resemblances; the elaborate differentiations from a fundamental type—!”
“Ah, yes,” broke in Reuben, secretly irritated, his tribal sensitiveness a little hurt, “you will find among us all sorts and conditions of men.”