“Her own composition—­words and music,” she whispered.  “I wanted her to publish it, but she is so shy and retiring.  Who would think she was the child of a pauper emigrant, a rough jewel one has picked up and polished?  If you really are going to start a new Jewish paper, she might be of use to you.  And then there is Miss Cissy Levine—­you have read her novels, of course?  Sweetly pretty!  Do you know, I think we are badly in want of a new paper, and you are the only man in the community who could give it us.  We want educating, we poor people, we know so little of our faith and our literature.”

“I am so glad you feel the want of it,” whispered Raphael, forgetting Esther in his pleasure at finding a soul yearning for the light.

“Intensely.  I suppose it will be advanced?”

Raphael looked at her a moment a little bewildered.

“No, it will be orthodox.  It is the orthodox party that supplies the funds.”

A flash of light leaped into Mrs. Goldsmith’s eyes.

“I am so glad it is not as I feared.” she said.  “The rival party has hitherto monopolized the press, and I was afraid that like most of our young men of talent you would give it that tendency.  Now at last we poor orthodox will have a voice.  It will be written in English?”

“As far as I can,” he said, smiling.

“No, you know what I mean.  I thought the majority of the orthodox couldn’t read English and that they have their jargon papers.  Will you be able to get a circulation?”

“There are thousands of families in the East End now among whom English is read if not written.  The evening papers sell as well there as anywhere else in London.”

“Bravo!” murmured Mrs. Goldsmith, clapping her hands.

Esther had finished her song.  Raphael awoke to the remembrance of her.  But she did not come to him again, sitting down instead on a lounge near the piano, where Sidney bantered Addie with his most paradoxical persiflage.

Raphael looked at her.  Her expression was abstracted, her eyes had an inward look.  He hoped her headache had not got worse.  She did not look at all pretty now.  She seemed a frail little creature with a sad thoughtful face and an air of being alone in the midst of a merry company.  Poor little thing!  He felt as if he had known her for years.  She seemed curiously out of harmony with all these people.  He doubted even his own capacity to commune with her inmost soul.  He wished he could be of service to her, could do anything for her that might lighten her gloom and turn her morbid thoughts in healthier directions.

The butler brought in some claret negus.  It was the break-up signal.  Raphael drank his negus with a pleasant sense of arming himself against the cold air.  He wanted to walk home smoking his pipe, which he always carried in his overcoat.  He clasped Esther’s hand with a cordial smile of farewell.

“We shall meet again soon, I trust,” he said.