“You did, Miriam, and it’s quite true.”
“It appears to be so because, as I’ve been trying to show you, men don’t know where they are.”
“Your man’ll know, Miriam. You ought to marry and have children. You’d have good children. Good shapes and good brains.”
“The mere sight of a child, moving unconsciously, its little shoulders and busy intentions, makes me catch my breath.”
“Marry your Jew, Miriam. Well—perhaps no; don’t marry your Jew.”
“The other day we were walking somewhere. I was dead-tired. He knew it and kept on suggesting a hansom. Suddenly there was a woman, lugging a heavy perambulator up some steps. He stood still, shouting to me to help her.”
“What did you do?”
“I blazed his own words back at him. I daresay I stamped my foot. Meanwhile the woman, who was very burly, had got the perambulator up. We walked on and presently he said in a quiet intensely interested voice ‘Why did you not help this woman?’”
“What did you say?”
“I began to talk about something else.”