"It's not affectation. I mean it. What's the good of the men who visit father? There isn't a gentleman among them."
"Ah, wait till I win on the lottery," said the special young man.
"Then, vy not take another eighth of a ticket?" inquired Sugarman the Shadchan, who seemed to spring from the other end of the room. He was one of the greatest Talmudists in London—a lean, hungry-looking man, sharp of feature and acute of intellect. "Look at Mrs. Robinson—I've just won her over twenty pounds, and she only gave me two pounds for myself. I call it a cherpah—a shame."
"Yes, but you stole another two pounds," said Becky.
"How do you know?" said Sugarman startled.
Becky winked and shook her head sapiently. "Never you mind."
The published list of the winning numbers was so complex in construction that Sugarman had ample opportunities of bewildering his clients.
"I von't sell you no more tickets," said Sugarman with righteous indignation.
"A fat lot I care," said Becky, tossing her curls.
"Thou carest for nothing," said Mrs. Belcovitch, seizing the opportunity for maternal admonition. "Thou hast not even brought me my medicine to-night. Thou wilt find, it on the chest of drawers in the bedroom."