“And, any how, whom do I know to call on?”
“Whom do you know? Mercy upon me! I could name fifty people, whom you not only know, but to whom you actually owe calls. It's really abominable, the way you neglect, and always have neglected, your social duties. There's no excuse for it. If—if you were an old recluse like me, it would be different.”
“I don't see how. What if you were a young recluse, like me?”
“Ah, but nobody has a right to be a young recluse. It is only when we get along in years, that we are entitled to withdraw from the world. Besides, it's narrowing, it's hardening. You need contact with other people, to broaden your mind, and keep your sympathies alive. If you avoid society while you're young, the milk of human kindness will dry up in your bosom. You'll get coldblooded, selfish, indifferent.” Which amiable sentiments, falling from the lips of the rabbi, possessed a peculiar interest. “Come,” he added, “run up-stairs, and put on your best suit, and go make a call.”
“Again I ask, whom on?”
“On—on anybody. I'll tell you whom. Call on Mr. and Mrs. Koch.”
The pronunciation of this name has been anglicized into Coach.
“Which Koch? A. Hamilton?”
“No, of course not. Washington I.”
“Oh, heavens! I haven't called on them these two years. I'd be afraid to show my face inside their door. They'd overwhelm me with reproaches.”