l never do it with the old generation," said Strelitski. "My
hope is in the new. Moses led the Jews forty years through the
wilderness merely to eliminate the old. Give me young men, and I will
move the world."

"You will do nothing by attempting too much," said Raphael; "you will
only dissipate your strength. For my part, I shall be content to raise
Judaea an inch."

"Go on, then," said Strelitski. "That will give me a barley-corn. But
I've wasted too much' of your time, I fear. Good-bye. Remember your
promise."

He held out his hand. He had grown quite calm, now his decision was
taken.

"Good-bye," said Raphael, shaking it warmly. "I think I shall cable to
America, 'Behold, Joseph the dreamer cometh.'"

"Dreams are our life," replied Strelitski. "Lessing was
right--aspiration is everything."

"And yet you would rob the orthodox Jew of his dream of Jerusalem! Well,
if you must go, don't go without your tie," said Raphael, picking it up,
and feeling a stolid, practical Englishman in presence of this
enthusiast. "It is dreadfully dirty, but you must wear it a little
longer."

"Only till the New Year, which is bearing down upon us," said
Strelitski, thrusting it into his pocket. "Cost what it may, I shall no
longer countenance the ritual and ceremonial of the season of
Repentance. Good-bye again. If you should be writing to Miss Ansell, I
should like her to know how much I owe her."

"But I tell you I don't know her address," said Raphael, his uneasiness
reawakening.

"Surely you can write to her publishers?"

And the door closed upon the Russian dreamer, leaving the practical
Englishman dumbfounded at his never having thought of this simple
expedient. But before he could adopt it the door was thrown open again
by Pinchas, who had got out of the habit of knocking through Raphael
being too polite to reprimand him. The poet, tottered in, dropped
wearily into a chair, and buried his face in his hands, letting an
extinct cigar-stump slip through his fingers on to the literature that
carpeted the floor.

"What is the matter?" inquired Raphael in alarm.

"I am miserable--vairy miserable."

"Has anything happened?"

"Nothing. But I have been thinking vat have I come to after all these
years, all these vanderings. Nothing! Vat vill be my end? Oh. I am so
unhappy."

"But you are better off than you ever were in your life. You no longer
live amid the squalor of the Ghetto; you are clean and well dressed: you