Yetta blushed in the consciousness of what she had always considered to be a fine likeness of Elkan's grandfather—the Lubliner Rav—which hung in a silver-and-plush frame over the mantelpiece of the Lubliner front parlour. Elkan was unashamed, however, and he glared angrily at the connoisseur, who had started to leave the store.
"I suppose," he cried, "it ain't up to date that a feller should have hanging in his flat a portrait of his grandfather—olav hasholem!—which he was a learned man and a Tzadek, if there ever was one."
Paul hesitated, with his hand on the doorknob.
"I'll tell you, Mr. Lubliner," he said solemnly; "to me a crayon portrait is rotten, understand me, if it would be of a Tzadek oder a murderer."
And with a final bow to Mrs. Lubliner he banged the door behind him.
"Well, what d'ye think for a Rosher like that?" Elkan exclaimed.
"The fellow is disappointed that you got ahead of him buying the chairs, Mr. Lubliner," Ringentaub explained; "so he takes a chance that you and Mrs. Lubliner is that kind of people which is got hanging in the parlour crayon portraits, understand me, and he knocks you for it."
Elkan shrugged his shoulders.
"What could you expect from a feller which is content at fifty years of age to be a collector only?" he asked, and Dishkes nodded sympathetically.
"I bet yer, Mr. Lubliner," he agreed; "and so I would be at your store to-morrow morning at ten o'clock sure."