The words were so fierce and unexpected, the crone's eyes blazed so weirdly, that the new wife recoiled with a little shriek.
'Henry!' she cried.
Fork in hand, he darted in from the living-room, but came to a sudden standstill.
'What do you want here?' he muttered.
'Fanny's shoes!' she cried.
'Who is it?' his wife's eyes demanded.
'A half-witted creature we deal with out of charity,' he gestured back. And he put her inside the room-door, whispering, 'Let me get rid of her.'
'So, that's your painted poppet,' hissed his mother-in-law in Yiddish.
'Painted?' he said angrily. 'Madge painted? She's just as natural as a rosy apple. She's a country girl, and her mother was a lady.'
'Her mother? Perhaps! But she? You see a glossy high hat marked sixteen and sixpence, and you think it's new. But I know what it's come from—a battered thing that has rolled in the gutter. Ah, how she could have bewitched you, when there are so many honest Jewesses without husbands!