“Well, one can never tell what people will pride themselves upon,” said Cecil, looking away. “But such a choice of friends——”
“I never said I was proud of it,” he said, quickly.
“No, your tone said it for you,” said Cecil; “it implied that it was original and uncommon to have such a circle of acquaintances. But if you are so fond of Jews, why don’t you get to know Dr Yehudi?”
“What, the fat old padre down in the town?”
“Yes; you seldom have him here on Sundays, because he knows so many more languages than Mr Schad, and so does more mission-work. He can speak an extraordinary number of modern dialects, and knows Syriac and Chaldee and all the old languages as well.”
“Oh, I have heard them talking of him at Azevedo’s. To mention his name there is like waving a red rag before a particularly furious bull. And so he is one of those expensive people, converted Jews? You know it costs, they say, a thousand pounds to convert one Jew. I should like to see one. I’ll go and look him up.”
“I hope you will,” said Cecil, quietly.
Charlie looked at her a moment to discover whether she was angry with his speech.
“Don’t you mind my saying that about the thousand pounds?” he asked.
“Why should I?” said Cecil. “Can you say that a soul, whether Dr Yehudi’s or any one else’s, is not worth so much? But when you know him, you will be better able to judge for yourself.”