“You can’t be a gallivanting dodger,” said Fledgeby. “For you’re a ‘regular pity the sorrows,’ you know⁠—if you do know any Christian rhyme⁠—‘whose trembling limbs have borne him to’⁠—et cetrer. You’re one of the Patriarchs; you’re a shaky old card; and you can’t be in love with this Lizzie?”

“O, sir!” expostulated Riah. “O, sir, sir, sir!”

“Then why,” retorted Fledgeby, with some slight tinge of a blush, “don’t you out with your reason for having your spoon in the soup at all?”

“Sir, I will tell you the truth. But (your pardon for the stipulation) it is in sacred confidence; it is strictly upon honour.”

“Honour too!” cried Fledgeby, with a mocking lip. “Honour among Jews. Well. Cut away.”

“It is upon honour, sir?” the other still stipulated, with respectful firmness.