“Of course, everybody’s better than me,” said Becky petulantly, as she snatched her fingers away from Shosshi.

“No, thou art better than the whole world,” protested Shosshi Shmendrik, feeling for the fingers.

“Who spoke to thee?” demanded Belcovitch, incensed.

“Who spoke to thee?” echoed Becky.  And when Shosshi, with empurpled pimples, cowered before both, father and daughter felt allies again, and peace was re-established at Shosshi’s expense.  But Esther’s curiosity was satisfied.  She seemed to see the whole future of this domestic group:  Belcovitch accumulating gold-pieces and Mrs. Belcovitch medicine-bottles till they died, and the lucky but henpecked Shosshi gathering up half the treasure on behalf of the buxom Becky.  Refusing the glass of rum, she escaped.

The dinner which Debby (under protest) did not pay for, consisted of viands from the beloved old cook-shop, the potatoes and rice of childhood being supplemented by a square piece of baked meat, likewise knives and forks.  Esther was anxious to experience again the magic taste and savor of the once coveted delicacies.  Alas! the preliminary sniff failed to make her mouth water, the first bite betrayed the inferiority of the potatoes used.  Even so the unattainable tart of infancy mocks the moneyed but dyspeptic adult.  But she concealed her disillusionment bravely.

“Do you know,” said Debby, pausing in her voluptuous scouring of the gravy-lined plate with a bit of bread, “I can hardly believe my eyes.  It seems a dream that you are sitting at dinner with me.  Pinch me, will you?”

“You have been pinched enough,” said Esther sadly.  Which shows that one can pun with a heavy heart.  This is one of the things Shakspeare knew and Dr. Johnson didn’t.

In the afternoon, Esther went round to Zachariah Square.  She did not meet any of the old faces as she walked through the Ghetto, though a little crowd that blocked her way at one point turned out to be merely spectators of an epileptic performance by Meckisch.  Esther turned away, in amused disgust.  She wondered whether Mrs. Meckisch still flaunted it in satins and heavy necklaces, or whether Meckisch had divorced her, or survived her, or something equally inconsiderate.  Hard by the old Ruins (which she found “ruined” by a railway) Esther was almost run over by an iron hoop driven by a boy with a long swarthy face that irresistibly recalled Malka’s.

“Is your grandmother in town?” she said at a venture.

“Y—­e—­s,” said the driver wonderingly.  “She is over in her own house.”

Esther did not hasten towards it.

“Your name’s Ezekiel, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the boy; and then Esther was sure it was the Redeemed Son of whom her father had told her.

“Are your mother and father well?”

“Father’s away travelling.”  Ezekiel’s tone was a little impatient, his feet shuffled uneasily, itching to chase the flying hoop.