“Oh, dot's too baid. Ain't you naifer going to get married?”
“I don't know. I guess not,” he said.
At this, there was a universal murmur of disapproval.
“Dot's just the way with all the young fellers, now-a-days,” Mr. Blum exclaimed. “They don't none of them want to get married. It's simply fearful; hey, Dr. Gedaza? When me and you was young men, we'd be ashamed to be single at his age, hey? Why, a man ain't a goot Jew, if he don't get married. Might just as well be an American right out. If I was you, Elias Bacharach, I'd be afraid. The Lord will punish you. You better get married, or look out.”
“Yes, that's so.”
“There ain't any doubt about that.”
“A young fellow ought to get married, and no mistake.”
Remarks such as these went up from all directions; and poor Elias felt like the most miserable of sinners.
Tillie came to his rescue. “Oh, let Mr. Bacharach alone,” she cried. “He ain't dead yet. Give him time.” Then, turning to the victim, “Don't you mind them. They've got marriage on the brain.—How are you going to spend this summer? In the country?”
“Well I haven't made any plans yet,” he answered; “have you?”