Floyd was hurt.
“Anything that concerns you is of vital interest to me. You know that, don’t you, Julie?”
“Yes, I know it.”
She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most girls held themselves too cheaply.
“My grandfather doesn’t come down because he disapproves of the way we live. He says we have sold our souls.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“We are Jews. You needn’t come here again.” She went quickly up the steps and entered the house without looking back.
Floyd walked down the street towards his house. He was terribly excited; socially, he had never known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys of their creed were limited in numbers in the colleges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they managed to filter through everywhere. What did it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They were Catholics.
A young man came towards him, of striking appearance, with a touch of something about him not American. He put out his hand laughingly to Floyd. It was Martin.
“You’ve done with me?”