And even as she wondered the vision of Felix Weinberg stood before her. This man of fire and romance and dreams, against Abe Shmukler, was like sunrise and moonrise and song against cloaks and suits. How could any woman who had known the fiery wonder of the poet be content with this tame, ox-like husband?
“I’ve already picked out a man for you, so you can settle near us for good,” said Abe, giving Rebecca another affectionate hug.
Again her heart warmed to him. He was so well intentioned, so lovable. The world needed these plain, bread-and-butter men. Their affection-craving natures, their generous instincts, kept the home fires burning.
Abe fulfilled the great essentials of life. He was a good provider, a good husband, a good father and a genial host. But though he could feed her sister with the fat of the land, what nourishment could this stolid bread-giver provide for the heart, the soul, the mind?
Rebecca’s reverie was interrupted by the jangle of the telephone.
“I’ll bet it’s already that man asking if you arrived.” Abe winked at his wife and twitted his sister-in-law under the chin as he picked up the receiver.
“Yes, she’s here,” Rebecca heard Abe say. And turning to his wife: “Minnie, our friend Moe is coming for dinner.”
“Coming right for dinner,” cried Minnie. “Quickly we must fix you up. I can’t have that man see you looking like a greenhorn just off the ship.”
Rebecca surveyed herself critically in the gilt mirror. The excitement of the arrival had brought a faint flush to her cheeks. Her hair had become softer, wavier in the moist California air.
“Why can’t I see your Rockefeller prince as I am?” Rebecca was not aware that her charm was enhanced by the very simplicity of her attire. “Is he so high tone that plain me is not good enough for him?”