“What are you talking about?” he murmured automatically.

“About your engagement to Miss Hannibal.”

“That blackguard told you!” he whispered angrily, half to himself.  “Well, what of it?  I am not bound to advertise it, am I?  It’s my private business, isn’t it?  You don’t expect me to hang a placard round my breast like those on concert-room chairs—­’Engaged’!”

“Certainly not,” said Esther.  “But you might have told your friends, so as to enable them to rejoice sympathetically.”

“You turn your sarcasm prettily,” he said mildly, “but the sympathetic rejoicing was just what I wanted to avoid.  You know what a Jewish engagement is, how the news spreads like wildfire from Piccadilly to Petticoat Lane, and the whole house of Israel gathers together to discuss the income and the prospects of the happy pair.  I object to sympathetic rejoicing from the slums, especially as in this case it would probably be exchanged for curses.  Miss Hannibal is a Christian, and for a Jew to embrace a Christian is, I believe, the next worse thing to his embracing Christianity, even when the Jew is a pagan.”  His wonted flippancy rang hollow.  He paused suddenly and stole a look at his companion’s face, in search of a smile, but it was pale and sorrowful.  The flush on his own face deepened; his features expressed internal conflict.  He addressed a light word to Addie in front.  They were nearing the portico; it was raining outside and a cold wind blew in to meet them; he bent his head down to the delicate little face at his side, and his tones were changed.

“Miss Ansell,” he said tremulously, “if I have in any way misled you by my reticence, I beg you to believe it was unintentionally.  The memory of the pleasant quarters of an hour we have spent together will always—­”

“Good God!” said Esther hoarsely, her cheeks flaming, her ears tingling.  “To whom are you apologising?” He looked at her perplexed.  “Why have you not told Addie?” she forced herself to say.

In the press of the crowd, on the edge of the threshold, he stood still.  Dazzled as by a flash of lightning, he gazed at his cousin, her beautifully poised head, covered with its fleecy white shawl, dominating the throng.  The shawl became an aureole to his misty vision.

“Have you told her?” he whispered with answering hoarseness.

“No,” said Esther.

“Then don’t tell her,” he whispered eagerly.

“I must.  She must hear it soon.  Such things must ooze out sooner or later.”

“Then let it be later.  Promise me this.”

“No good can come of concealment.”

“Promise me, for a little while, till I give you leave.”

His pleading, handsome face was close to hers.  She wondered how she could ever have cared for a creature so weak and pitiful.

“So be it,” she breathed.

“Miss Leon’s carriage,” bawled the commissionaire.  There was a confusion of rain-beaten umbrellas, gleaming carriage-lamps, zigzag rejections on the black pavements, and clattering omnibuses full inside.  But the air was fresh.