"I don't think it's really like them. Why should anybody buy them who doesn't know them?" He spoke so heavily and dully that Mendel found it hard to conceal his irritation. When Issy had gone back to his chair, he asked:-- "What do you live for, Issy?" "Live?" said Issy, mystified. "Yes. What do you like best in the world?" "Playing cards. Playing cards. Every day there's work and every night there's Rosa, and on Saturday I play cards. Yes. I play cards; and, of course, you are always something to think about." "What do you think about me?" "Oh! You will be rich and famous, and you will be able to choose among all the girls with money. It is like having a play always going on in the family. But I would rather play cards, and Rosa is not so bad as you all say she is. I am not a good husband to her, for I have moods and I cannot talk to her, for I cannot talk to anyone. What is there to say? She has her children, and she only wants more because she is a fool. It is not her fault." "That'll do, Issy. I've got all I want. I can't get any more from you. Some day I'll teach you how to be happy." "Oh!" said Issy, with a sly leer. "I know how to be happy. I can't see why anyone should want to have father and mother hanging on their walls." He slunk away. How depressing he was! Poor old Issy! as much a part of the street as the doors and windows of the houses. He might move a hundred yards to another exactly similar street, but he would always be the same. It was not his fault. Mendel knew the depths of devotion of which his brother was capable. It was devotion to his mother that kept him living round the corner, devotion to his father that tied him to the unprofitable business. The name of Kühler had attained the dignity of a brass-plate on the front door, and he would die rather than see it removed, at any rate in his father's lifetime.