"Churchwarden, my dear," said Aaron, addressing his wife in a pleasant tone, "and corn-chandler."
For the life of him Mr. Whimpole could not have explained to the satisfaction of those not directly interested why he was angry at the reception he was meeting. That Aaron Cohen was not the kind of man he had expected to meet would not have been accepted as a sufficient reason.
"I am not mistaken," said Mr. Whimpole, with a flush of resentment, "in believing you to be a Jew?"
"You are not mistaken," replied Aaron with exceeding urbanity. "I am a Jew. If I were not proud of the fact it would be folly to attempt to disguise it, for at least one feature in my face would betray me."
"It would," said Mr. Whimpole, dealing a blow which had the effect of causing Aaron to lean back in his chair, and laugh gently to himself for fully thirty seconds.
"When you have quite finished," said Mr. Whimpole coldly, "we will proceed."
"Excuse me," said Aaron, drawing a deep breath of enjoyment. "I beg you will not consider me wanting in politeness, but I have the instincts of my race, and I never waste the smallest trifle, not even a joke."
A little tuft of hair which ran down the center of Mr. Whimpole's head--the right and left banks of which were devoid of
verdure--quivered in sympathy with the proprietor's astonishment. That a man should make a joke out of that which was generally considered to be a reproach and a humiliation was, indeed, matter for amazement, nay, in this instance, for indignation, for in Aaron Cohen's laughter he, Mr. Whimpole himself, was made to occupy a ridiculous place.
"We are loath," continued Aaron, "to waste even the thinnest joke. We are at once both thrifty and liberal."
"We!" exclaimed Mr. Whimpole in hot repudiation.