playhouse as one happy family. Distinctions of rank were trivial, and gallery held converse with circle, and pit collogued with box. Supper parties were held on the benches.
In a box that gave on the pit a portly Jewess sat stiffly, arrayed in the very pink of fashion, in a spangled robe of India muslin, with a diamond necklace and crescent, her head crowned by terraces of curls and flowers.
"Betsy!" called up a jovial feminine voice from the pit, when the applause had subsided.
"Betsy " did not move, but her cheeks grew hot and red. She had got on in the world, and did not care to recognise her old crony.
"Betsy!" iterated the well-meaning woman. "By your life and mine, you must taste a piece of my fried fish." And she held up a slice of cold plaice, beautifully browned.
Betsy drew back, striving unsuccessfully to look unconscious. To her relief the curtain rose, and The Castle Spectre walked. Yankele, who had scarcely seen anything but private theatricals, representing the discomfiture of the wicked Haman and the triumph of Queen Esther (a role he had once played himself, in his mother's old clothes), was delighted with the thrills and terrors of the ghostly melodrama. It was not till the conclusion of the second act that the emotion the beautiful but injured heroine cost him welled over again into matrimonial speech.
"Ve vind up de night glorious," he said.
"I am glad you like it. It is certainly an enjoyable performance," Manasseh answered with stately satisfaction.
"Your daughter, Deborah," Yankele ventured timidly, "do she ever go to de play?"
" No, I do not take my womankind about. Their duty lies at home. As it is written, I call my wife not ' wife ' but ' home.' "
