“I don’t judge of these things by rule and measure,” said my mother: “try my smelling-bottle, my dear.” Very few people, especially women of delicate nerves and quick feelings, could, as my mother observed, bear to be laughed at; particularly by those they loved; and especially before other people who did not know them perfectly. My mother was persuaded, she said, that Lord Mowbray had not reflected on all this when he had laughed so inconsiderately. Mowbray allowed that he certainly had not reflected when he had laughed inconsiderately. “So come, come. Anne, sister Anne, be friends!” then playfully tapping his sister on the back, the pretty, but sullen back of the neck, he tried to raise the drooping head; but finding the chin resist the upward motion, and retire resentfully from his touch, he turned upon his heel, and addressing himself to me, “Well! Harrington,” said he, “the news of the day, the news of the theatre, which I was bringing you full speed, when I stumbled upon this cursed half-pint of asses’ milk, which Mrs.. Harrington was so angry with me for overturning--” “But what’s the news, my lord?” said my mother. “News! not for you, ma’am, only for Harrington; news of the Jews.” “The Jews!” said my mother. “The Jews!” said I, both in the same breath, but in very different tones. “_Jews_, did I say?” replied Mowbray: “Jew, I should have said.” “Mr. Montenero?” cried I. “Montenero!--Can you think of nothing but Mr. Montenero, whom you’ve never seen, and never will see?” “Thank you for that, my lord,” said my mother; “one touch from you is worth a hundred from me.” “But of what Jew then are you talking? and what’s your news, my lord?” said I. “My news is only--for Heaven’s sake, Harrington, do not look expecting a mountain, for ‘tis only a mouse. The news is, that Macklin, the honest Jew of Venice, has got the pound, or whatever number of pounds he wanted to get from the manager’s heart; the quarrel’s made up, and if you keep your senses, you may have a chance to see, next week, this famous Jew of Venice.” “I am heartily glad of it!” cried I, with enthusiasm. “And is that all?” said my mother, coldly. “Mr. Harrington,” said Lady Anne, “is really so enthusiastic about some things, and so cold about others, there is no understanding him; he is very, very _odd_.” Notwithstanding all the pains my mother took to atone for my offence, and notwithstanding that I had humbled myself to the dust to obtain pardon, I was not forgiven.