The sloppy Sunday afternoon, which was the first opportunity Raphael had of profiting by Mr. Henry Goldsmith’s general invitation to call and see Esther, happened to be that selected by the worthy couple for a round of formal visits.  Esther was left at home with a headache, little expecting pleasanter company.  She hesitated about receiving Raphael, but on hearing that he had come to see her rather than her patrons, she smoothed her hair, put on a prettier frock, and went down into the drawing-room, where she found him striding restlessly in bespattered boots and moist overcoat.  When he became aware of her presence, he went towards her eagerly, and shook her hand with jerky awkwardness.

“How are you?” he said heartily.

“Very well, thank you,” she replied automatically.  Then a twinge, as of reproach at the falsehood, darted across her brow, and she added, “A trifle of the usual headache.  I hope you are well.”

“Quite, thank you,” he rejoined.

His face rather contradicted him.  It looked thin, pale, and weary.  Journalism writes lines on the healthiest countenance.  Esther looked at him disapprovingly; she had the woman’s artistic instinct if not the artist’s, and Raphael, with his damp overcoat, everlastingly crumpled at the collar, was not an aesthetic object.  Whether in her pretty moods or her plain, Esther was always neat and dainty.  There was a bit of ruffled lace at her throat, and the heliotrope of her gown contrasted agreeably with the dark skin of the vivid face.

“Do take off your overcoat and dry yourself at the fire,” she said.

While he was disposing of it, she poked the fire into a big cheerful blaze, seating herself opposite him in a capacious arm-chair, where the flame picked her out in bright tints upon the dusky background of the great dim room.

“And how is The Flag of Judah?” she said.

“Still waving,” he replied.  “It is about that that I have come.”

“About that?” she said wonderingly.  “Oh, I see; you want to know if the one person it is written at has read it.  Well, make your mind easy.  I have.  I have read it religiously—­No, I don’t mean that; yes, I do; it’s the appropriate word.”

“Really?” He tried to penetrate behind the bantering tone.

“Yes, really.  You put your side of the case eloquently and well.  I look forward to Friday with interest.  I hope the paper is selling?”

“So, so,” he said.  “It is uphill work.  The Jewish public looks on journalism as a branch of philanthropy, I fear, and Sidney suggests publishing our free-list as a ‘Jewish Directory.’”

She smiled.  “Mr. Graham is very amusing.  Only, he is too well aware of it.  He has been here once since that dinner, and we discussed you.  He says he can’t understand how you came to be a cousin of his, even a second cousin.  He says he is L’Homme qui rit, and you are L’Homme qui prie.”