"You accuse me of having stone figures in my house," he said boldly, "but what about the lions in front of yours?"
"I have no lions," said Manasseh.
"Wilkinson told me so. Didn't you, Wilkinson?"
"Wilkinson is a slanderer. That was the house of Nathaniel Furtado."
Grobstock began to choke with chagrin. He perceived at once that the Schnorrer had merely had the clothes conveyed direct to the house of a wealthy private dealer.
"Take care!" exclaimed the Schnorrer anxiously, "you are spluttering sauce all over that waistcoat, without any consideration for me."
Joseph suppressed himself with an effort. Open discussion would betray matters to his wife, and he was now too deeply enmeshed in falsehoods by default. But he managed to whisper angrily, "Why did you tell Wilkinson I ordered him to carry your box?"
"To save your credit in his eyes. How was he to know we had quarrelled? He would have thought you discourteous to your guest."
"That's all very fine. But why did you sell my clothes?"
"You did not expect me to wear them? No, I know my station, thank God."