"But where are the fellows?"
"Aren't you one?" "No."
"Oh, these two girls go in for highbrow fellows," said a young
woman who had hitherto contented herself with smiling and
laughing. "They're highbrow themselves."
"Do they use big words?" I asked.
"Well, they're well read. I'll say that for them," observed Miss
Lazar, with a fine display of fairness
"College girls?"
"Only one of them."
"Which?"
"Guess."
"The tall one."
"I thought she'd be the one you'd pick. You'll have to guess again."
"What made you think I'd pick her for a college girl?" "You'll have
to guess that, too. Well, she is an educated girl, all the same."
She volunteered the further information that the tall girl's father
was a writer, and, as though anxious lest I should take him too
seriously, she hastened to add: "He doesn't write English, though.
It's Jewish, or Hebrew, or something."
"What's his name?" I asked
"Tevkin," she answered, under her breath
The name sounded remotely familiar to me. Had I seen it in some
Yiddish paper? Had I heard it somewhere? The intellectual East
Side was practically a foreign country to me, and I was proud of
the fact.
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