“No, I went to the Great Shool,” said Pinchas in German.  “If you do not see me at your place you may be sure I’m somewhere else.  Any one who has lived so long as I in the Land of Israel cannot bear to pray without a quorum.  In the Holy Land I used to learn for an hour in the Shool every morning before the service began.  But I am not here to talk about myself.  I come to ask you to do me the honor to accept a copy of my new volume of poems:  Metatoron’s Flames.  Is it not a beautiful title?  When Enoch was taken up to heaven while yet alive, he was converted to flames of fire and became Metatoron, the great spirit of the Cabalah.  So am I rapt up into the heaven of lyrical poetry and I become all fire and flame and light.”

The poet was a slim, dark little man, with long, matted black hair.  His face was hatchet-shaped and not unlike an Aztec’s.  The eyes were informed by an eager brilliance.  He had a heap of little paper-covered books in one hand and an extinct cigar in the other.  He placed the books upon the breakfast table.

“At last,” he said.  “See, I have got it printed—­the great work which this ignorant English Judaism has left to moulder while it pays its stupid reverends thousands a year for wearing white ties.”

“And who paid for it now, Mr. Pinchas?” said the Rebbitzin.

“Who?  Wh-o-o?” stammered Melchitsedek.  “Who but myself?”

“But you say you are blood-poor.”

“True as the Law of Moses!  But I have written articles for the jargon papers.  They jump at me—­there is not a man on the staff of them all who has the pen of a ready writer.  I can’t get any money out of them, my dear Rebbitzin, else I shouldn’t be without breakfast this morning, but the proprietor of the largest of them is also a printer, and he has printed my little book in return.  But I don’t think I shall fill my stomach with the sales.  Oh! the Holy One, blessed be He, bless you, Rebbitzin, of course I’ll take a cup of coffee; I don’t know any one else who makes coffee with such a sweet savor; it would do for a spice offering when the Almighty restores us our Temple.  You are a happy mortal, Rabbi.  You will permit that I seat myself at the table?”

Without awaiting permission he pushed a chair between Levi and Hannah and sat down; then he got up again and washed his hands and helped himself to a spare egg.

“Here is your copy, Reb Shemuel,” he went on after an interval.  “You see it is dedicated generally: 

    “‘To the Pillars of English Judaism.’

“They are a set of donkey-heads, but one must give them a chance of rising to higher things.  It is true that not one of them understands Hebrew, not even the Chief Rabbi, to whom courtesy made me send a copy.  Perhaps he will be able to read my poems with a dictionary; he certainly can’t write Hebrew without two grammatical blunders to every word.  No, no, don’t defend him, Reb Shemuel, because you’re under him.  He ought to be under you—­only he expresses his ignorance in English and the fools think to talk nonsense in good English is to be qualified for the Rabbinate.”