“Negotiations? How do you mean?”
“Why, with her parents, of course. Ask for her hand—declare your sentiments.”
“Oh, no; that isn't necessary.”
“No? How so?”
“Why, I've done all that for myself. I have proposed, and—and been accepted.”
“You have! You don't say so! Oh, you sly, secretive rascal! Well, I congratulate you. You ought to have stuck to the good, old-fashioned custom, and had me make the first advances; but I congratulate you, all the same. What's her name? Who is she? One of our congregation? Tell me all about her.”
The rabbi sat forward in his chair, curiosity incarnate. His pale skin had become slightly flushed. His eyes, beaming over the gold bows of his spectacles, were fixed intently upon his nephew's face.
Elias had not enjoyed this beating about the bush; but he had lacked both the courage and the tact to put an end to it. Now, however, when its end had arrived naturally, in the course of circumstances, he wished that it might have been indefinitely prolonged; so great, so unreasonable, was the dread he felt.
“Her name,” he began—he looked hard at the floor; and his voice was a trifle unsteady—“she's a young American lady; and her name is Redwood—Miss Christine Redwood.”
For an instant the rabbi's appearance did not change. It no doubt needed that instant for his mind to appreciate the purport of what his ears had heard. But all at once, the flush across his forehead first deepened to a vivid crimson, and then faded quite away, leaving the skin waxen white, with the blue veins distended upon it. A dart of light, like an electric spark, shot from his eyes, which then filled with an opaque, smoky darkness. His lips twitched a little; his fingers clenched convulsively. He started backward a few inches into his chair. His attitude was that of a man whose faculties have been scattered and confounded by a sudden, tremendous blow.