“Reuben,” said the rabbi sternly, “you have gone too far. Put the glass down!” He advanced toward the young man.
“Hold!” cried Reuben. “If anyone in this room touches me or attempts to take this glass from me, I shall quickly hurl it to the floor. Look, everybody!” He held the glass aloft. “See how fragile it is! I have only to hold it a little tighter and it will break into a dozen pieces, and no human skill will ever be able to put them together again!”
Zalman was in agony.
“I yield,” he cried. “Give me the glass. You shall marry Barbara to-morrow. Do not hold it so tightly. Put it down gently.”
He held out his hand. His lips were twitching with repressed curses on Reuben’s head. But Reuben only smiled.
“No, good father,” he said. “Not to-morrow. You might change your mind. Let it be now, and your glass is safe.”
(“What a pertinacious young man!” thought the connoisseur.)
“May the fiends devour you!” cried Zalman.
“Now look you,” said Reuben, twirling the delicate glass in a careless way that sent chill shudders down the tailor’s spine; “it is you who are stubborn. Not I. If you knew how devotedly I loved Barbara you would not, you could not be so heartless as to keep us apart.”
“The foul fiends!” muttered Zalman. Beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead; he was very pale.