Shosshi's affection for Becky increased weekly under the stress of these intimate conversations with her family. At last his passion was rewarded, and Becky, at the violent instance of her father, consented to disappoint one of her young men and stay at home to meet her future husband. She put off her consent till after dinner though, and it began to rain immediately before she gave it.
The moment Shosshi came into the room he divined that a change had come over the spirit of the dream. Out of the corners of his eyes he caught a glimpse of an appalling beauty standing behind a sewing machine. His face fired up, his legs began to quiver, he wished the ground would open and swallow him as it did Korah.
"Becky," said Mr. Belcovitch, "this is Mr. Shosshi Shmendrik."
Shosshi put on a sickly grin and nodded his head affirmatively, as if to corroborate the statement, and the round felt hat he wore slid back till the broad rim rested on his ears. Through a sort of mist a terribly fine maid loomed.
Becky stared at him haughtily and curled her lip. Then she giggled.
Shosshi held out his huge red hand limply. Becky took no notice of it.
"Nu, Becky!" breathed Belcovitch, in a whisper that could have been heard across the way.
"How are you? All right?" said Becky, very loud, as if she thought deafness was among Shosshi's disadvantages.
Shosshi grinned reassuringly.
There was another silence.