"Oh, but why not?" murmured Grobstock, his blood running cold again.
"I cannot," said Manasseh, shaking his head.
"But they will just about fit you," pleaded the philanthropist.
"That makes it all the more absurd for you to give them to Simeon the Psalms-man," said Manasseh sternly. "Still, since he is your clothes-receiver, I could not think of interfering with his office. It is not etiquette. I am surprised you should ask me if I should mind. Of course I should mind—I should mind very much."
"But he is not my clothes-receiver," protested Grobstock.
"Last Passover was the first time I gave them to him, because my cousin, Hyam Rosenstein, who used to have them, has died."
"But surely he considers himself your cousin's heir," said Manasseh. "He expects all your old clothes henceforth."
"No. I gave him no such promise."
Manasseh hesitated.
"Well, in that case—"
"In that case," repeated Grobstock breathlessly.
"On condition that I am to have the appointment permanently, of course."
"Of course," echoed Grobstock eagerly.
"Because you see," Manasseh condescended to explain, "it hurts one's reputation to lose a client."
"Yes, yes, naturally," said Grobstock soothingly. "I quite understand." Then, feeling himself slipping into future embarrassments, he added timidly, "Of course they will not always be so good as the first lot, because—"
"Say no more," Manasseh interrupted reassuringly, "I will come at once and fetch them."
"No. I will send them," cried Grobstock, horrified afresh.
