Burton snorted. “It don’t take much observation to see that. But I suppose you have your reasons. You Jews are always so sly. That’s how you get on so, I suppose.”
“You Gentiles,” replied Moses (and the Jew’s voice had tones which gave him an infinite advantage in retaliating scorn), “you Gentiles would do as well as we do if you were able to foresee and knew how to wait. You have all the selfishness for success, my dear, but the gifts of prophecy and patience are wanting to you.”
“That’s nothing to do with your little game about
the boy,” said Burton; “however, I suppose you can keep your own secrets.”
“I have no secrets,” said Moses gently. “And if you take my advice, you never will have. If you have no secrets, my dear, they will never be found out. If you tell your little designs, your best friends will be satisfied, and will not invent less creditable ones for you.”
“If they did, you’d talk ’em down,” said Burton roughly. “Short of a woman I never met such a hand at jaw. You’ll be in Parliament yet——” (“It is possible!” said the Jew hastily,) “with that long tongue of yours. But you haven’t told us about the boy, for all you’ve said.”
“About this boy,” said Moses, “a proverb will be shorter than my jaw. ‘The son of the house is not a servant for ever.’ As to the other—he was taken for charity and dismissed for theft, is it not so? He came from the dirt, and he went back to the dirt. They often do. Why should I be civil to him?”
What reply Mr. Burton would have made to this question I had no opportunity of judging. My uncle called him, and he ran hastily up-stairs. And when he had gone, the Jew came slowly out, and crossed the office as if he were going into the street. By this time my conscience was pricking hard, and I shoved
my book under my coat and called to him: “Mr. Benson.”
“You?” he said.