“News! not for you, ma’am, only for Harrington; news of the Jews.”
“The Jews!” said my mother.
“The Jews!” said I, both in the same breath, but in very different tones.
“Jews, did I say?” replied Mowbray: “Jew, I should have said.”
“Mr. Montenero?” cried I.
“Montenero!—Can you think of nothing but Mr. Montenero, whom you’ve never seen, and never will see?”
“Thank you for that, my lord,” said my mother; “one touch from you is worth a hundred from me.”
“But of what Jew then are you talking? and what’s your news, my lord?” said I.
“My news is only—for Heaven’s sake, Harrington, do not look expecting a mountain, for ‘tis only a mouse. The news is, that Macklin, the honest Jew of Venice, has got the pound, or whatever number of pounds he wanted to get from the manager’s heart; the quarrel’s made up, and if you keep your senses, you may have a chance to see, next week, this famous Jew of Venice.”
“I am heartily glad of it!” cried I, with enthusiasm.