“My dear boy,” returned the debtor, very composedly taking up his glass, “having previously fallen into the hands of some of the Christians, I can bear it with philosophy.”
“I have had an interview today, Eugene, with a Jew, who seems determined to press us hard. Quite a Shylock, and quite a Patriarch. A picturesque grey-headed and grey-bearded old Jew, in a shovel-hat and gaberdine.”
“Not,” said Eugene, pausing in setting down his glass, “surely not my worthy friend Mr. Aaron?”
“He calls himself Mr. Riah.”
“By the by,” said Eugene, “it comes into my mind that—no doubt with an instinctive desire to receive him into the bosom of our Church— I gave him the name of Aaron!”
“Eugene, Eugene,” returned Lightwood, “you are more ridiculous than usual. Say what you mean.”
“Merely, my dear fellow, that I have the honour and pleasure of a speaking acquaintance with such a Patriarch as you describe, and that I address him as Mr. Aaron, because it appears to me Hebraic, expressive, appropriate, and complimentary. Notwithstanding which strong reasons for its being his name, it may not be his name.”
“I believe you are the absurdest man on the face of the earth,” said Lightwood, laughing.
“Not at all, I assure you. Did he mention that he knew me?”
“He did not. He only said of you that he expected to be paid by you.”
“Which looks,” remarked Eugene with much gravity, “like not knowing me. I hope it may not be my worthy friend Mr. Aaron, for, to