even once a week. It is your fine nature that would hide its benefactions. Do not I, Manasseh Bueno Barzillai Azevedo da Costa, have at my Sabbath-table every week Yankelé ben Yitzchok—a Pole? And if I have a Tedesco at my table, why should I draw the line there? Why should I not permit you, a Tedesco, to return the hospitality to me, a Sephardi? At six, then! I know your house well—it is an elegant building that does credit to your taste—do not be uneasy—I shall not fail to be punctual. A Dios!" [20] [20] This time he waved his stick fraternally, and stalked down a turning. For an instant Grobstock stood glued to the spot, crushed by a sense of the inevitable. Then a horrible thought occurred to him. "WAVED HIS STICK FRATERNALLY." Easy-going man as he was, he might put up with the visitation of Manasseh. But then he had a wife, and, what was worse, a livery servant. How could he expect a livery servant to tolerate such a guest? He might fly from the town on Friday evening, but that would necessitate troublesome[21] explanations. And Manasseh would come again the next Friday. That was certain. Manasseh would be like grim death—his coming, though it might be postponed, was inevitable. Oh, it was too terrible. At all costs he must revoke the invitation(?). Placed between Scylla and Charybdis, between Manasseh and his manservant, he felt he could sooner face the former. [21] "Da Costa!" he called in agony. "Da Costa!" The Schnorrer turned, and then Grobstock found he was mistaken in imagining he preferred to face da Costa. "You called me?" enquired the beggar. "Ye—e—s," faltered the East India Director, and stood paralysed. "What can I do for you?" said Manasseh graciously. "Would you mind—very much—if I—if I asked you—" "Not to come," was in his throat, but stuck there. "If you asked me—" said Manasseh encouragingly.
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