"Do not interrupt me."
"No, mother."
"Answer me, Ikey."
"I says to her, Momsey."
Mrs. Milo glared at the boy, her breast heaving. There was more in her hostile attitude toward him than the fact that he bore signs of a fracas, or that he had dared in her hearing to let slip the "Momsey" he so loved to use. To her, pious as she was (but pious through habit rather than through any deep conviction), the mere sight of the child was enough to rouse her anger. She resented his ever having been taken into the choir of St. Giles, no matter how good his voice might be. She even resented his having a voice. He was "that little Jew" always, and a living symbol "in our Christian church" of a "race that had slain the Lord." And it was all this which added to his sin in daring to look upon her daughter with an affection that was filial.
"Ikey Einstein,"—she emphasized the name—"haven't you been told never to address Miss Susan as 'Momsey'?"
"He forgot," urged Sue. "But he won't ever——"
"You're interrupting again——"
"Excuse me."
"How do you expect these boys to be obedient when you don't set them a good example?" Her sorrowful smile was purely muscular in its origin.