"Not have Sabbath-guests! No, no, I will not believe you are of the sons of Belial, whose table is spread only for the rich, who do not proclaim your equality with the poor 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!_" 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. [Illustration: "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 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. "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. "To accept some of my clothes," flashed Grobstock, with a sudden inspiration. After all, Manasseh was a fine figure of a man. If he could get him to doff those musty garments of his he might almost pass him off as a prince of the blood, foreign by his beard--at any rate he could be certain of making him acceptable to the livery servant. He breathed freely again at this happy solution of the situation. "Your cast-off clothes?" asked Manasseh. Grobstock was not sure whether the tone was supercilious or eager. He hastened to explain. "No, not quite that. Second-hand things I am still wearing. My old clothes were already given away at Passover to Simeon the Psalms-man. These are comparatively new." "Then I would beg you to excuse me," said Manasseh, with a stately wave of the bag. "Oh, but why not?" murmured Grobstock, his blood running cold again. "I cannot," said Manasseh, shaking his head.