“I suppose I had better not ask whether this is kosher?” she inquired diffidently.
“Oh, it is quite kosher; it came from Abrahams’,” Mike answered quickly. “I would not offer it to you unless it were.”
He poured out two wine-glasses full of port: it was ’57 port. Dinah clinked her glass against his, and drank. Then she looked at the ham again, and sighed.
“Have a bit?” suggested her brother-in-law, with a sly wink.
She shook her head, but it was not a very decided kind of shake. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, with a feeble attempt at casuistry—
“Mike, the ham has rubbed shoulders with the chicken. They are both on the same dish, therefore one is no more kosher than the other. I think you may give me a piece just about the size of a sixpence. I’ve never tasted it before in my life.”
“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity. “Here, give me your plate. If you eat a little bit, it’s just as bad—or as good—as eating the whole lot. There—now what do you think of it?”
Dinah cut a small piece, and pricked it with her fork. “‘Get a piece of pork,’” she murmured softly, “‘and stick it on a fork, and give it to the——’” Here she popped it into her mouth. “Oh, Mike, it’s positively scrumptious. But you won’t tell Ma, will you?”
“Oh no, I won’t split on you,” he replied cheerfully. “You see, we are both in the same boat.”
Pushing back his chair, he rose from the table; for a ring on the telephone claimed his attention.