“With pleasure,” he said, his face lighting up.

“Don’t mention Mr. Armitage’s book to me again.  I am sick of hearing about it.”

“So am I,” he said, rather disappointed.  “After that dinner I thought it only fair to read it, and although I detect considerable crude power in it, still I am very sorry it was ever published.  The presentation of Judaism is most ignorant.  All the mystical yearnings of the heroine might have found as much satisfaction in the faith of her own race as they find expression in its poetry.”

He rose to go.  “Well, I am to take it for granted you will not write that antidote?”

“I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to undertake it,” she said more mildly than before, and pressed her hand again to her brow.

“Pardon me,” he said in much concern.  “I am too selfish.  I forgot you are not well.  How is your head feeling now?”

“About the same, thank you,” she said, forcing a grateful smile.  “You may rely on me for art; yes, and music, too, if you like.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “You read a great deal, don’t you?”

She nodded her head.  “Well, every week books are published of more or less direct Jewish interest.  I should be glad of notes about such to brighten up the paper.”

“For anything strictly unorthodox you may count on me.  If that antidote turns up, I shall not fail to cackle over it in your columns.  By the by, are you going to review the poison?  Excuse so many mixed metaphors,” she added, with a rather forced laugh.

“No, I shan’t say anything about it.  Why give it an extra advertisement by slating it?”

“Slating,” she repeated with a faint smile.  “I see you have mastered all the slang of your profession.”

“Ah, that’s the influence of my sub-editor,” he said, smiling in return.  “Well, good-bye.”

“You’re forgetting your overcoat,” she said, and having smoothed out that crumpled collar, she accompanied him down the wide soft-carpeted staircase into the hall with its rich bronzes and glistening statues.

“How are your people in America?” he bethought himself to ask on the way down.

“They are very well, thank you,” she said.  “I send my brother Solomon The Flag of Judah.  He is also, I am afraid, one of the unregenerate.  You see I am doing my best to enlarge your congregation.”

He could not tell whether it was sarcasm or earnest.

“Well, good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand.  “Thank you for your promise.”

“Oh, that’s not worth thanking me for,” she said, touching his long white fingers for an instant.  “Look at the glory of seeing myself in print.  I hope you’re not annoyed with me for refusing to contribute fiction,” she ended, growing suddenly remorseful at the moment of parting.

“Of course not.  How could I be?”

“Couldn’t your sister Adelaide do you a story?”

“Addle?” he repeated laughing, “Fancy Addie writing stories!  Addie has no literary ability.”