“Melchitsedek Pinchas, the poet I told you of.”

“I suppose he writes in Hebrew.”

“No, if he did the translation would be plain sailing enough.  The trouble is that he will write in English.  I must admit, though, he improves daily.  Our correspondents, too, have the same weakness for the vernacular, and I grieve to add that when they do introduce a Hebrew word, they do not invariably spell it correctly.”

She smiled; her smile was never so fascinating as by firelight.

Raphael rose and paced the room nervously, flinging out his arms in uncouth fashion to emphasize his speech.

“I was thinking you might introduce a secular department of some sort which would brighten up the paper.  My articles are so plaguy dull.”

“Not so dull, for religious articles,” she assured him.

“Could you treat Jewish matters from a social standpoint—­gossipy sort of thing.”

She shook her head.  “I’m afraid to trust myself to write on Jewish subjects.  I should be sure to tread on somebody’s corns.”

“Oh, I have it!” he cried, bringing his arms in contact with a small Venetian vase which Esther, with great presence of mind, just managed to catch ere it reached the ground.

“No, I have it,” she said, laughing.  “Do sit down, else nobody can answer for the consequences.”

She half pushed him into his chair, where he fell to warming his hands contemplatively.

“Well?” she said after a pause.  “I thought you had an idea.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, rousing himself.  “The subject we were just discussing—­Art.”

“But there is nothing Jewish about art.”

“All noble work has its religious aspects.  Then there are Jewish artists.”

“Oh yes! your contemporaries do notice their exhibits, and there seem to be more of them than the world ever hears of.  But if I went to a gathering for you how should I know which were Jews?”

“By their names, of course.”

“By no means of course.  Some artistic Jews have forgotten their own names.”

“That’s a dig at Sidney.”

“Really, I wasn’t thinking of him for the moment,” she said a little sharply.  “However, in any case there’s nothing worth doing till May, and that’s some months ahead.  I’ll do the Academy for you if you like.”

“Thank you.  Won’t Sidney stare if you pulverize him in The Flag of Judah?  Some of the pictures have also Jewish subjects, you know.”

“Yes, but if I mistake not, they’re invariably done by Christian artists.”

“Nearly always,” he admitted pensively.  “I wish we had a Jewish allegorical painter to express the high conceptions of our sages.”

“As he would probably not know what they are,”—­she murmured.  Then, seeing him rise as if to go, she said:  “Won’t you have a cup of tea?”

“No, don’t trouble,” he answered.

“Oh yes, do!” she pleaded.  “Or else I shall think you’re angry with me for not asking you before.”  And she rang the bell.  She discovered, to her amusement, that Raphael took two pieces of sugar per cup, but that if they were not inserted, he did not notice their absence.  Over tea, too, Raphael had a new idea, this time fraught with peril to the Sevres tea-pot.