“Yes, but I was wondering——”
“You’ll hurt yourself with wondering so much,” remarked Mr. Johnson facetiously.
“About inviting Mr. Levi. You see, he’s a Jew.”
“What of it? I don’t mind.”
“Nor do I. But does one, to a Christmas dinner?”
“Why not?... Oh! Ah!...” slowly in Mr. Johnson’s brain, an atmosphere of holly, plum-pudding, gifts, and jocularity, cleared away, to reveal for an instant the event for which the festival stood as symbol.
“Ah. Um.”
Mrs. Johnson folded up her work. “I’m going over to consult Millicent Baker; she knows more about Jews than we. I shouldn’t like to do the wrong thing about it, and hurt his feelings.”
Mrs. Baker, when the problem was formally laid before her, delivered judgment against. “He might not be able to eat the food. If it isn’t cooked Kosher. Of course, if you want to put yourself out——”
“I couldn’t possibly ask that much of Cook. When we’re twelve sitting down as it is. And I don’t think my father would care about a—what do you call it?—Kosher plum-pudding. It doesn’t sound convivial, does it?” doubtfully.