Gottlieb turned red and hung back.
“I think, father,” he said, “you had better not go just yet. Let us wait a few days until the Shadchen has made all the arrangements. She is an American girl. She—she won’t—er—understand your ways—don’t you know? And it may spoil everything.”
Crash! Marta had dropped an iron pot that she was cleaning. Shadrach was red in the face with suppressed rage.
“So!” he said. “It has come to this. You are ashamed of your father!” Then he turned to the old servant:
“Marta,” he said, “to-morrow we become Americanised—you and I.”
There was an intonation in his voice that alarmed his son.
“You are not angry——” he began, but with a fierce gesture his father cut him short.
“Not another word. To bed! Go to bed at once.”
Gottlieb was dumbfounded. With open mouth he stared at his father. He had not heard that tone since he was a little boy.
“But, father——” he began.