“Yes,” he muttered to himself: “I’ll taste food with my children, before I take up my stick and go…They say it’s lucky to have the first drink of the day served by one’s own child …and luck I will have again, at any price… What good children! While I’ve been anything but a good father to them, they run hither and thither and take the trouble to get me food and drink, and I, I’ve brought them home nothing but a wooden stick. But I’ll repay them, so help me God, I’ll make them rich yet, but I’ve got nothing but a wooden stick, and I want money, no play without money, and no luck either…” Gradually a certain thoughtfulness overspread Ascher’s agitated features, his lips were tightly compressed, deep furrows lined his forehead, while his eyes were fixed in a stony glare, as if upon some distant object. In the meantime Ephraim had remained standing almost motionless, and it was evident that his presence in the room had quite escaped his father’s observation. With a chilling shudder running through his frame, his hair on end with horror, he listened to the strange soliloquy!…Then he saw his father’s eyes travelling slowly in the direction of the old bureau in the corner, and there they remained fixed. “Why does he leave the key in the door, I wonder,” he heard him mutter between his teeth, “just as Gudule used to do; I must tell him when he comes back, keys shouldn’t be left indoors, never, under any circumstances.” The entrance of Viola interrupted the old gambler’s audible train of thought. Ephraim gave a gasp of relief. “Ah, what have you brought me?” cried Ascher, and his eyes sparkled with animation, as Viola produced some bottles from under her apron, and placed them and some glasses upon the table. “Now then, fill up the glass,” he shouted, in a commanding voice, “and take care that you don’t spill any, or you’ll spoil my luck.” With trembling hand Viola did as she was bidden, without spilling a single drop. Then he took up the glass and drained it at one draught. His face flushed a bright crimson: he poured himself out another glass. “Aren’t you drinking, Ephraim?” he exclaimed, after he had finished that glass also. “I don’t drink to-day, father,” Ephraim faltered, “it’s a fast.” “A fast? What fast? I have been fasting too,” he continued, with a coarse laugh, “twice a week, on bread and water; an excellent thing for the stomach. Fancy, a fast-day in midsummer. On such a long day, when the sun is up at three already, and at eight o’clock at night is still hesitating whether he’ll go to bed or not …what have I got to do with your Fast-day?”