Can you
recall anybody you know, my boy--even in the houses where you and
I have been lately, who doesn't let the word slip out in a dozen
different ways before the evening is over? And best of all, he's
sane,--one of the few men whom it is safe to let walk around
loose."
"And you like him?"
"Immensely."
"And you never remember he is a Jew?" This was one of the things
Jack had never understood.
"Never;--that's not his fault,--rather to his credit."
"Why?"
"Because the world is against both him and his race, and yet in
all the years I have known him, nothing has ever soured his
temper."
Jack struck a match, relit his cigar and settling himself more
comfortably in his chair, said in a positive tone:
"Sour or sweet,--I don't like Jews,--never did."
"You don't like him because you don't know him. That's your fault,
not his. But you would like him, let me tell you, if you could
hear him talk. And now I think of it, I am determined you shall
know him, and right away. Not that he cares--Cohen's friends are
among the best men in London, especially the better grade of
theatrical people, whose clothes he has made and whose purses he
has kept full--yes--and whom he sometimes had to bury to keep them
out of Potter's field; and those he knows here--his kind of
people, I mean, not yours.
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