To Susanna, imbued with her preoccupation in supreme chic, her father no doubt did not seem a completely decorative father; but he gave Cæsar the impression of a forceful man.
Near them, at a table close by, was a little blond man, with a hooked nose and a scanty imperial, in company with a fat lady. They bowed to Marchmont and his wife.
“That gentleman looks like a Jew,” said Cæsar.
“He is,” replied Marchmont, “that is Señor Pereyra, a rich Jew; of Portuguese origin, I think.”
“How quickly you saw it!” exclaimed Susanna.
“He has that air of a sick goat, so frequent in Jews.”
“His wife has nothing sickly about her, or thin either,” remarked Laura.
“No,” said Cæsar; “his wife represents another Biblical type; one of the fat kine of somebody’s dream, which foretold abundance and a good harvest.”
The Englishman, Kennedy, had also little liking for Jews.
“I do not hate a Jew as anti-Christian,” said Cæsar; “but as super-Christian. Nor do I hate the race, but the tendency they have never to be producers, but always middlemen, and because they incarnate so well for our era the love of money, and of joy and pleasure.”