“It grows worse and worse,” he said. “The Jews do not kill. It is the Christians who lust for blood. It is the Christians who are so wicked and dishonest that, when they must be found out, they say it is the Jews, or that the Jews are more wicked than they. It is impossible. But England is good to the Jews. England must send soldiers to Russia or the Jews will be all murdered.”
“Yes, it is bad in Russia,” said Golda, nodding her head. “But life is bad everywhere for good people. Only in England one is left alone.”
“Well, Mr. Artist!” said Moscowitsch genially. “Made your fortune yet?”
“No,” replied Mendel; “but I have been to Paris for my holidays and I stayed in a hotel. Three of us spent twenty pounds.”
“So?” said Moscowitsch, impressed. “Have you made it up with the Birnbaum, then?”
“No.”
“That is not the way to get on, to quarrel with money.”
“If he wants money,” said Golda, “he can always get it. What more do you want? There are some letters for you, Mendel.”
He opened his letters, and had the satisfaction of telling Moscowitsch that he was asked to paint a portrait for thirty pounds.
“Who is it?” asked Moscowitsch. “A lord?” He had an idea that only lords had their portraits painted by hand.