The agent was standing at the door of the office of the noble, bent a little forward, smiling, always ready to please and serve the noble, and say a witty word to put him in good humour. The noble was feeling pretty good, and joked with the Jew.
"Chaimek," spoke he, "wert thou in Cracow?"
"I was not, serene lord."
"Then thou art stupid."
Chaimek bowed.
"Chaimek, wert thou in Rome?"
"I was not, serene lord."
"Then thou art very stupid."
Chaimek bowed again, but in the meanwhile he had made two steps forward. On his lips wandered one of those smiles common to the people of his race—clever, cunning, in which it is impossible to say whether there is humility or triumph, flattery or irony.
"Excuse me, your lordship," he said softly, "has your lordship been in Szybow?"