Mrs. Sachs shifted uneasily.
“You saw him just before he went, uncle Solomon, when he was tired out and not himself. He had been running from pillar to post all the week.”
Mrs. Leuniger muttered dejectedly: “He is getting to look like his father.”
Old Solomon raised his square hand to his beard, lifting his eyebrows high above the grave, shrewd, melancholy eyes.
Mrs. Sachs started; a sudden look of terror came into her face; the whites of her little hard eyes grew visible.
“Why don’t he marry?” said Solomon Sachs after a pause; “why don’t he marry that daughter of Cardozo’s? She’s not much to look at, certainly,” he added, and a wave of whimsical amusement broke out suddenly over the large, grave face.
“Yes,” put in Mrs. Leuniger, unusually loquacious, “his wife might see that he didn’t work himself to death.”
“I don’t see how he can work less,” cried Adelaide; “he has his way to make. And making your way, in these days, means pulling a great many strings.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Sachs, relieved by this view of the case, “he must get on.”
Judith began to feel that her powers of endurance had their limits. She rose slowly, went over to the fireplace for a moment, threw a casual remark to Rose, and went from the room.