“Well,” replied Judith, affecting to understand them literally, “I fancy there will not be much difficulty about that. If he’s as poor as you say, he’ll only be too well pleased to get a good situation, and keep it, too, I should think.”
“I’sh not so sure about that. He’sh a young man of a proud spirit. That ish proved by hish leaving his uncle ash he has done—without a shilling in hish pocket—and then to defy the Cushtos faysh to faysh! Blesh my soul! what a foolish young fellow he ish! He must be managed, Shoodith, dear—he must be managed; and you’re shoost the one to do it.”
“Why, father, to hear you talk, one would think that this poor young Englishman was a rich sugar estate—to be managed for some grand profit—”
“Aha!” exclaimed the other, interrupting her; “maybe yesh—maybe he ish a rich sugar estate. We shee—we shee.”
“Now, had it been the grand guest of Mount Welcome,” continued Judith, without heeding the interruption; “had it been this lord of Montagu Castle that you wished me to manage,”—at the word the Jewess smiled significantly—“I might have come nearer comprehending you.”
“Ah! there is no schance there—no schance whatever, Shoodith.”
“No chance of what?” abruptly inquired the Jewess.
“Why, no schance of—that ish—”
“Come, worthy rabbi, speak out! You needn’t be afraid to tell me of what you’re thinking: I know it already.”
“Of what wash I thinking, Shoodith?” The father put this question rather with a view to escape from an explanation. The daughter instantaneously answered,