“I am glad she says that,” she remarked enigmatically.  “And, naturally, everybody detests me?”

“Not everybody,” he began threateningly.

“Don’t let us stand on the steps,” she interrupted.  “People will be looking at us.”  They moved slowly downwards, and into the hot, bustling streets.  “Why are you not at the Flag?  I thought this was your busy day.”  She did not add, “And so I ventured to the Museum, knowing there was no chance of your turning up;” but such was the fact.

“I am not the editor any longer, he replied.

“Not?” She almost came to a stop.  “So much for my critical faculty; I could have sworn to your hand in every number.”

“Your critical faculty equals your creative,” he began.

“Journalism has taught you sarcasm.”

“No, no! please do not be so unkind.  I spoke in earnestness.  I have only just been dismissed.”

“Dismissed!” she echoed incredulously.  “I thought the Flag was your own?”

He grew troubled.  “I bought it—­but for another.  We—­he—­has dispensed with my services.”

“Oh, how shameful!”

The latent sympathy of her indignation cheered him again.

“I am not sorry,” he said.  “I’m afraid I really was outgrowing its original platform.”

“What?” she asked, with a note of mockery in her voice.  “You have left off being orthodox?”

“I don’t say that, it seems to me, rather, that I have come to understand I never was orthodox in the sense that the orthodox understand the word.  I had never come into contact with them before.  I never realized how unfair orthodox writers are to Judaism.  But I do not abate one word of what I have ever said or written, except, of course, on questions of scholarship, which are always open to revision.”

“But what is to become of me—­of my conversion?” she said, with mock piteousness.

“You need no conversion!” he answered passionately, abandoning without a twinge all those criteria of Judaism for which he had fought with Strelitski.  “You are a Jewess not only in blood, but in spirit.  Deny it as you may, you have all the Jewish ideals,—­they are implied in your attack on our society.”

She shook her head obstinately.

“You read all that into me, as you read your modern thought into the old naive books.”

“I read what is in you.  Your soul is in the right, whatever your brain says.”  He went on, almost to echo Strelitski’s words, “Selfishness is the only real atheism; aspiration, unselfishness, the only real religion.  In the language of our Hillel, this is the text of the Law; the rest is commentary.  You and I are at one in believing that, despite all and after all, the world turns on righteousness, on justice”—­his voice became a whisper—­“on love.”

The old thrill went through her, as when first they met.  Once again the universe seemed bathed in holy joy.  But she shook off the spell almost angrily.  Her face was definitely set towards the life of the New World.  Why should he disturb her anew?