"Zat is my shoke—a madrimonial gondract."
"Who has been telling you that?"
"Ah, I haf it in gonfidence from your sister. Already is she a frient. She tell everybody in gonfidence."
"Then you can contradict it in confidence, Herr Schwab. There is no foundation—that is to say, nothing is settled."
Schwab looked sly.
"No, not settled, of course—but gondemblated."
"Really, Herr Schwab!——"
"Yes, yes, I understan'. Shust so. I also have affair of ze heart." He sighed deeply. "I can symbazise. But viz me it is different. You are lucky dog—ze Fräulein Walewska is kind; vile I am in ze depss of desbair: Madame Bottle—ach, she is gruel. I sigh, she smile; I groan, she laugh; I even make bresentation, she decline vizout zanks. Ah! Mr. Brown, you do not know vat it is to be gross in lov."
Jack looked as sympathetic as he could, while Herr Schwab, laying his hand lightly on his waistcoat-buttons, continued lugubriously:
"Ach, truly it is a terrible zink to lov vizout return. It break ze heart; it shpoil ze digestion;—it is bad for business. No longer can I gif sole attention to ze interest of Schlagintwert. Vy, it is only a few days since I take order from Robinson & Robinson in London; yesterday Schlagintwert return ze order. Vat haf I written?—'Subbly Mrs. Bottle, 68 Crutched Friars, London, 50 casks botato shbirit, last quotation, f.o.b. Hamburg.' Zere is fipence vaste in bostages. Zat show you!"