“Nonsense! cheer up,” said Raphael.

“I can never cheer up any more.  I vill shoot myself.  I have realized the emptiness of life.  Fame, money, love—­all is Dead Sea fruit.”

His shoulders heaved convulsively; he was sobbing.  Raphael stood by helpless, his respect for Pinchas as a poet and for himself as a practical Englishman returning.  He pondered over the strange fate that had thrown him among three geniuses—­a male idealist, a female pessimist, and a poet who seemed to belong to both sexes and categories.  And yet there was not one of the three to whom he seemed able to be of real service.  A letter brought in by the office-boy rudely snapped the thread of reflection.  It contained three enclosures.  The first was an epistle; the hand was the hand of Mr. Goldsmith, but the voice was the voice of his beautiful spouse.

     “DEAR MR. LEON: 

“I have perceived many symptoms lately of your growing divergency from the ideas with which The Flag of Judah was started.  It is obvious that you find yourself unable to emphasize the olden features of our faith—­the questions of kosher meat, etc.—­as forcibly as our readers desire.  You no doubt cherish ideals which are neither practical nor within the grasp of the masses to whom we appeal.  I fully appreciate the delicacy that makes you reluctant—­in the dearth of genius and Hebrew learning—­to saddle me with the task of finding a substitute, but I feel it is time for me to restore your peace of mind even at the expense of my own.  I have been thinking that, with your kind occasional supervision, it might be possible for Mr. Pinchas, of whom you have always spoken so highly, to undertake the duties of editorship, Mr. Sampson remaining sub-editor as before.  Of course I count on you to continue your purely scholarly articles, and to impress upon the two gentlemen who will now have direct relations with me my wish to remain in the background.

     “Yours sincerely,

     “HENRY GOLDSMITH.

“P.S.—­On second thoughts I beg to enclose a cheque for four guineas, which will serve instead of a formal month’s notice, and will enable you to accept at once my wife’s invitation, likewise enclosed herewith.  Your sister seconds Mrs. Goldsmith in the hope that you will do so.  Our tenancy of the Manse only lasts a few weeks longer, for of course we return for the New Year holidays.”

This was the last straw.  It was not so much the dismissal that staggered him, but to be called a genius and an idealist himself—­to have his own orthodoxy impugned—­just at this moment, was a rough shock.

“Pinchas!” he said, recovering himself.  Pinchas would not look up.  His face was still hidden in his hands.  “Pinchas, listen!  You are appointed editor of the paper, instead of me.  You are to edit the next number.”

Pinchas’s head shot up like a catapult.  He bounded to his feet, then bent down again to Raphael’s coat-tail and kissed it passionately.