Mrs. Koch's mother, Mrs. Blum, a dumpy, rubicund old lady, with rather a sly, rollicking air about her, held his hand, and swayed her head like an inverted pendulum from side to side, and smiled incredulously, and kept repeating, “Vail, vail, vail!” Then came sprightly Mr. Blum, short, corpulent, and florid, like his wife; with a glossy bald pate, a drooping white mustache, and white mutton-chop whiskers, which left exposed a very red and shiny double chin. “My kracious? Was dot Elias Bacharach? Du lieber Gott! How you haif krown, since laist time you was here!” He held Elias off at arm's-length, and scrutinized him carefully. “Excuse me,” he demanded all at once; “where you get dot coat mait? Washington, come over here, and look at Elias Bacharach's coat. Dem must be Chairman goots, hey?” He plucked at the material of the unfortunate garment with his thumb and forefinger, and stroked it with the palm of his hand. “Dot's a goot coat,” he declared at last. “What you pay for it?” He lifted up one of the skirts, and examined the lining. He was a veritable child of nature, this Mr. Blum; and besides, he and his son-in-law constituted the firm of Blum & Koch, manufacturers and jobbers of ready-made clothing, Franklin Street, near Broadway. Elias and the rabbi paid their respects to the baby; after which, Mrs. Koch picked him up and carried him off. “Mr. Bacharach,” said Mr. Koch, grasping him by the elbow, “don't you know my brother-in-law, Mr. Sternberg?--Guggenheim & Sternberg, wholesale tobacco. My sister, Mrs. Sternberg; my other sister, Mrs. Morgenthau; my niece, Miss Tillie Morgenthau: Mr. Bacharach.” To each of these persons, in turn, Elias made his obeisance. Mrs. Morgenthau was in appearance a feminine duplicate of her brother; short, thick-set, smart-looking, and with an air of having lots of _go_; what is called a bouncing woman. “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she announced, in a loud, robust voice, and with emphasis, as though she wanted it understood that she wasn't fooling, but meant exactly what she said. She shook his hand, giving it a virile grip. Miss Tillie Morgenthau was a young lady of eighteen or twenty, taller than her mother, exceedingly taper in the waist, and of an exceedingly fresh complexion; decidedly a pretty girl, with plenty of waving black hair, a pair of bright blue eyes, a shapely red mouth, and a generous provision of tiny teeth, regular and of pearly whiteness. “Oh, I suppose Mr. Bacharach don't remember me,” she said, pouting playfully. She pronounced the personal pronoun _I_, like the interjection _Ah_. “Oh, on the contrary,” protested Elias, trying hard to remember whether he had ever seen her before. “Now, Ah'm perfectly sure you don't,” she insisted. “But All'll tell you. It was at the Advance Club, winter before last. Mr. Greenleaf introduced you to me--Charley Greenleaf. Do you belong to the Advance?” No, Elias said; he was not a member of any club.