Mr. Hart and Margaret walked through the shop, the shelves of which bent beneath the weight of ready-made clothes, up a flight of stairs to the first floor. There were four rooms on the floor comfortably furnished.
The shopkeeper revelled in his description of the rooms; to have heard him you would have believed the house was a palace. "Look at the view," said he, pointing to the dingy other side of the way, and making it bright by a magic wave of his hands; "look at the furniture; look at the couch--sit on it, it won't hurt you; real horsehair. Now just oblige me, and sit in this arm-chair--just to oblige me! What do you think of it? Is it easy, is it comfortable? Look at the pictures; look at the piano--run your fingers over it; look at the carpet. Here! sound the walls" (as though there was music in them); "look at the loftiness" (as though there was magic in the ceiling); "look at the ornaments; look at the fireplace."
And all the while he dilated upon the excellences of the apartments he washed his hands with invisible soap, and his face beamed with geniality. Such capital fellows at a bargain as he never betray anxiety.
"They are really very comfortable," said Mr. Hart, apart, to Margaret; "what do you say to them?"
"If you are satisfied, I am," she replied listlessly.
She could not be roused to take interest in anything.
"I am afraid he is a Jew," said Mr. Hart in a confidential whisper.
The shopkeeper heard the remark, and he smiled--a superior smile.
"Don't be afraid," he said good-humouredly, showing a fine set of white teeth. "I am a Jew, but I shan't bite you."
Mr. Hart was remorseful; he had no wish to hurt the man's feelings.