"Ay, isn't it?" said Norton. "There will be a good many such funny things, you'll find."
"But how are these cousins of yours Jews, Norton, when their mother is not a Jew?"
"Jewess," said Norton. "Why, because their father was,—a Jew, I mean. He was a Spanish Jew; and my aunt and cousins have lived in Spain till three years ago. How should a boy with his name, David Bartholomew, be anything but a Jew?"
"Bartholomew is English, isn't it?"
"Yes, the name. O they are not Spaniards entirely; only the family has lived out there for ever so long. They have relations enough in New York. I wish they hadn't."
"But how are they Jews, Norton? Don't they believe what we believe?"—Matilda's voice sunk.
"What we believe?" repeated Norton.
"Part of it, I suppose. They are not like Hindoos or Chinese. But you had better not talk to them just as you talked to Mr. Richmond to-night."
"But, Norton—I must live so."
"Live how you like; they have got nothing to do with your living. Now, Pink, I think we'll overhaul those chestnuts,—if you've no objection."