“Please . . . please . . .” she implored him.
A fury began to rise in him. He stamped his foot on the ground and struck his brush across the picture. He made a tremendous effort to recover himself, but before he could say another word she had slipped through the door and was gone. He darted after her, and reached the front-door just in time to see her running as hard as she could down the street and round the corner.
Just as he was, in his shirt-sleeves, hatless and collarless, he went in to see his mother. He was white-hot with rage, and he walked up to her and looked her up and down as though he were trying to persuade himself that she was to blame.
“What do you think the news is now?”
Golda put her hand to her heart and looked at him fearfully as she shook her head.
“I’ve been refused,” he said, “refused by the Christian girl.”
“Refused!” cried Golda, who had never heard of such a thing as a girl refusing to marry a rich young man.
“Yes. I proposed to her and she refused.”
“The Christians are all alike,” said Golda. “They keep themselves to themselves, and you must do the same.”
She took a smoked herring from the cupboard and cut it into portions.