“A recent letter?”

“He was talking about Christmas two years ago. But please don’t mention him to her. We have no right to discuss her affairs, have we?”

“No, no; of course not. It was just by way of conversation, eh?”

“That is the cemetery,” said Minkie, pointing to a low tree-lined wall in the distance. “Some day, if you like, I shall take you there, and show you his mother’s grave.”

“Thanks, but I am not fond of cemeteries, as a rule.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to be cremated?”

“I haven’t considered the matter.”

“But you ought to. You are quite old, nearly forty, and I saw in a pill advertisement the other day that forty is a dangerous age if your liver is out of order.”

“Here, young lady, not quite so fast, please. [Pg 15]How do you know I am forty, and why do you think I have a diseased liver?”

[Pg 15]

“It said so in the paper.”

“The deuce it did.”

“Yes; in one of those little spicy bits, telling you all about people, you know. It said: ‘Mr. Montague Schwartz is one of the Chosen People.’ You are Mr. Montague Schwartz, aren’t you?”

“Go on, do.”

“Oh, I remember every word ‘—one of the Chosen People—’ that means you are a Jew, doesn’t it?”

“Of Jewish descent, certainly.”

“Well, it went on: ‘His rise has been meteoric. At twenty he quitted the paternal fried fish shop in the Mile End Road, at thirty he was running a saloon and other industries at Kimberley, and at forty he is building a mansion in Mayfair.’ There was a lot more, but now you see how I knew your age.”

“It is perfectly clear. There only remains the liver.”

“I got that from the pill advertisement. [Pg 16]There are several sure signs of congestion, and you have all of them in your face and eyes. Shall I show it to you? Those 

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