“You are surprised at our system,” said Rafael, marking the evident bewilderment of his friend.  “Confess you would call it meanness—­my huckstering with yonder young fool.  I call it simplicity.  Why throw away a shilling without need?  Our race never did.  A shilling is four men’s bread:  shall I disdain to defile my fingers by holding them out relief in their necessity?  It is you who are mean—­you Normans—­not we of the ancient race.  You have your vulgar measurement for great things and small.  You call a thousand pounds respectable, and a shekel despicable.  Psha, my Codlingsby!  One is as the other.  I trade in pennies and in millions.  I am above or below neither.”

They were passing through a second shop, smelling strongly of cedar, and, in fact, piled up with bales of those pencils which the young Hebrews are in the habit of vending through the streets.  “I have sold bundles and bundles of these,” said Rafael.  “My little brother is now out with oranges in Piccadilly.  I am bringing him up to be head of our house at Amsterdam.  We all do it.  I had myself to see Rothschild in Eaton Place this morning, about the Irish loan, of which I have taken three millions:  and as I wanted to walk, I carried the bag.

“You should have seen the astonishment of Lauda Latymer, the Archbishop of Croydon’s daughter, as she was passing St. Bennet’s, Knightsbridge, and as she fancied she recognized in the man who was crying old clothes the gentleman with whom she had talked at the Count de St. Aulair’s the night before.”  Something like a blush flushed over the pale features of Mendoza as he mentioned the Lady Lauda’s name.  “Come on,” said he.  They passed through various warehouses—­the orange room, the sealing-wax room, the six-bladed knife department, and finally came to an old baize door.  Rafael opened the baize door by some secret contrivance, and they were in a black passage, with a curtain at the end.

He clapped his hands; the curtain at the end of the passage drew back, and a flood of golden light streamed on the Hebrew and his visitor.

CHAPTER XXIV.

They entered a moderate-sized apartment—­indeed, Holywell Street is not above a hundred yards long, and this chamber was not more than half that length—­it was fitted up with the simple taste of its owner.

The carpet was of white velvet—­(laid over several webs of Aubusson, Ispahan, and Axminster, so that your foot gave no more sound as it trod upon the yielding plain than the shadow did which followed you)—­of white velvet, painted with flowers, arabesques, and classic figures, by Sir William Ross, J. M. W. Turner, R. A., Mrs. Mee, and Paul Delaroche.  The edges were wrought with seed-pearls, and fringed with Valenciennes lace and bullion.  The walls were hung with cloth of silver, embroidered with gold figures, over which were worked pomegranates, polyanthuses, and passion-flowers, in ruby, amethyst, and smaragd.