"Just a minute, Sarah. Open quick!"
With a spring his son was at the door, unlocking and flinging it back.
"Come in, pa."
The years had weighed heavily upon Abrahm Kantor in avoirdupois only. He was himself plus eighteen years, fifty pounds, and a new sleek pomposity that was absolutely oleaginous. It shone roundly in his face, doubling of chin, in the bulge of waistcoat, heavily gold-chained, and in eyes that behind the gold-rimmed glasses gave sparklingly forth his estate of well-being.
"Abrahm, didn't I tell you not to dare to—"
On excited balls of feet that fairly bounced him, Abrahm Kantor burst in.
"Leon—mamma—I got out here an old friend—Sol Ginsberg. You remember, mamma, from brasses—"
"Abrahm—not now—"
"Go 'way with your 'not now'! I want Leon should meet him. Sol, this is him—a little grown up from such a nebich like you remember him—nu? Sarah, you remember Sol Ginsberg? Say—I should ask you if you remember your right hand! Ginsberg & Esel, the firm. This is his girl, a five years' contract signed yesterday—five hundred dollars an opera for a beginner—six rôles—not bad—nu?"
"Abrahm, you must ask Mr. Ginsberg please to excuse Leon until after his concert—"