"How can you say so? It's perfect," said Mrs. Grobstock. "Salad is cook's speciality." Manasseh tasted it critically. "On salads you must come to me," he said. "It does not want vinegar," was his verdict; "but a little more oil would certainly improve it. Oh, there is no one dresses salad like Hyman!" Hyman's fame as the _Kosher chef_ who superintended the big dinners at the London Tavern had reached Mrs. Grobstock's ears, and she was proportionately impressed. "They say his pastry is so good," she observed, to be in the running. "Yes," said Manasseh, "in kneading and puffing he stands alone." "Our cook's tarts are quite as nice," said Grobstock roughly. "We shall see," Manasseh replied guardedly. "Though, as for almond-cakes, Hyman himself makes none better than I get from my cousin, Barzillai of Fenchurch Street." "Your cousin!" exclaimed Grobstock, "the West Indian merchant!" "The same--formerly of Barbadoes. Still, your cook knows how to make coffee, though I can tell you do not get it direct from the plantation like the wardens of my Synagogue." Grobstock was once again piqued with curiosity as to the _Schnorrer's_ identity. "You accuse me of having stone figures in my house," he said boldly, "but what about the lions in front of yours?" "I have no lions," said Manasseh. "Wilkinson told me so. Didn't you, Wilkinson?" "Wilkinson is a slanderer. That was the house of Nathaniel Furtado." Grobstock began to choke with chagrin. He perceived at once that the _Schnorrer_ had merely had the clothes conveyed direct to the house of a wealthy private dealer. "Take care!" exclaimed the _Schnorrer_ anxiously, "you are spluttering sauce all over that waistcoat, without any consideration for me." Joseph suppressed himself with an effort. Open discussion would betray matters to his wife, and he was now too deeply enmeshed in falsehoods by default. But he managed to whisper angrily, "Why did you tell Wilkinson I ordered him to carry your box?" "To save your credit in his eyes. How was he to know we had quarrelled? He would have thought you discourteous to your guest." "That's all very fine. But why did you sell my clothes?" "You did not expect me to wear them? No, I know my station, thank God." "What is that you are saying, Mr. da Costa?" asked the hostess. "Oh, we are talking of Dan Mendoza," replied Grobstock glibly; "wondering if he'll beat Dick Humphreys at Doncaster." "Oh, Joseph, didn't you have enough of Dan Mendoza at supper last night?" protested his wife. "It is not a subject _I_ ever talk about," said the _Schnorrer_, fixing his host with a reproachful glance. Grobstock desperately touched his foot under the table, knowing he was selling his soul to the King of _Schnorrers_, but too flaccid to face the moment. "No, da Costa doesn't usually," he admitted. "Only Dan Mendoza being a Portuguese I happened to ask if he was ever seen in the Synagogue."