“My dear Mortimer, you are the express picture of contented industry, reposing (on credit) after the virtuous labours of the day.”

“My dear Eugene, you are the express picture of discontented idleness not reposing at all. Where have you been?”

“I have been,” replied Wrayburn, “ — about town. I have turned up at the present juncture, with the intention of consulting my highly intelligent and respected solicitor on the position of my affairs.”

“Your highly intelligent and respect solicitor is of opinion that your affairs are in a bad way, Eugene.”

“Though whether,” said Eugene thoughtfully, “that can be intelligently said, now, of the affairs of a client who has nothing to lose and who cannot possibly be made to pay, may be open to question.”

“You have fallen into the hands of the Jews, Eugene.”

“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 to-day, 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 honor 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 tell you the truth, Mortimer, I doubt he may have a prepossession against me. I strongly suspect him of having had a hand in spiriting away Lizzie.”

“Everything,” returned Lightwood impatiently, “seems, by a fatality, to bring us round to Lizzie. ‘About town’ meant about Lizzie, just now, Eugene.”

“My solicitor, do you know,” observed Eugene, turning round to the furniture, “is a man of infinite discernment!”

“Did it not, Eugene?”

“Yes it did, Mortimer.”

“And yet, Eugene, you know you do not really care for her.”