A silk-lined, Paris-made wool dress rustled close beside her, and she put out one of the slender hands without turning her head.
“Mother, dear,” said she, as a little silver-haired old lady took it and came and leaned against her tall girl’s shoulder, “haven’t we had enough of the ‘Först-haus zu Trauerbach?’”
“Not until a certain girl, who danced away her color at Cannes, begins to bloom again.”
Ruth shrugged, and then laughed. “At least it isn’t so—so indigestible as Munich.”
“Oh! Absurd! Speaking of digestion, come to your Schmarn und Reh-braten. Supper is ready.”
Mother and daughter walked into the dingy “Stube” and took their seats at the Forester’s table.
Mr Blumenthal’s efforts had not secured him a place there after all; Anna, the capable niece of the Frau Förster, having set down a large foot, clad in a thick white stocking and a carpet slipper, to the effect that there was only room for the Herr Förster’s family and the Americans.
“I also am an American!” cried Mr Blumenthal in Hebrew-German. Nevertheless, when Ruth and her mother came in he bowed affably to them from the nearest end of the next table.
“Mamma,” said Ruth, very low, “I hope I’m not going to begin being difficult, but do you know, that is really an odious man?”
“Yes, I do know,” laughed her easy-tempered mother, “but what is that to us?”