'The—the—er—the matrimonial agent.'
'What impudence! Before your year of mourning is up!'
Mrs. Cohn's sallow face became one flame. 'Not me! You!' she blurted.
'Me! Well, of all the cheek!' And Simon's flush matched his mother's.
'Oh, it's not so unreasonable,' she murmured deprecatingly. 'I suppose he thought you would be looking for a wife before long; and naturally,' she added, her voice growing bolder, 'I should like to see you settled before I follow your father. After all, you are no ordinary match. Sugarman says there isn't a girl in Bayswater, even, who would refuse you.'
'The very reason for refusing them,' cried Simon hotly. 'What a ghastly idea, that your wife would just as soon have married any other fellow with the same income!'
Mrs. Cohn cowered under his scorn, yet felt vaguely exalted by it, as by the organ in St. Paul's, and strange tears of shame came to complicate her emotions further. She remembered how she had been exported from Poland to marry the unseen S. Cohn. Ah! how this new young generation was snapping asunder the ancient coils! how the new and diviner sap ran in its veins!
'I shall only marry a girl I love, mother. And it's not likely to be one of these Jewish girls, I tell you frankly.'
She trembled. 'One of which Jewish girls?' she faltered.
'Oh, any sort. They don't appeal to me.'