his own puffs,
anyhow. I suppose Goldsmith's only the signature, not intended to be the
last word on the subject. Wants touching up, though; can't have 'spirit'
twice within four lines. How lucky for him Leon is just off the box
seat! That queer beggar would never have submitted to any dictation any
more than the boss would have dared show his hand so openly."

While the sub-editor mused thus, a remark dropped from the editor's
lips, which turned Raphael whiter than the news of the death of Gideon
had done.

"Yes, and in the middle of writing I look up and see the maiden--oh,
vairy beautiful! How she gives it to English Judaism sharp in that
book--the stupid heads,--the Men-of-the-Earth! I could kiss her for it,
only I have never been introduced. Gideon, he is there! Ho! ho!" he
sniggered, with purely intellectual appreciation of the pungency.

"What maiden? What are you talking about?" asked Raphael, his breath
coming painfully.

"Your maiden," said Pinchas, surveying him with affectionate
roguishness. "The maiden that came to see you here. She was reading; I
walk by and see it is about America."

"At the British Museum?" gasped Raphael. A thousand hammers beat "Fool!"
upon his brain. Why had he not thought of so likely a place for a
_litterateur_?

He rushed out of the office and into a hansom. He put his pipe out in
anticipation. In seven minutes he was at the gates, just in time--heaven
be thanked!--to meet her abstractedly descending the steps. His heart
gave a great leap of joy. He studied the pensive little countenance for
an instant before it became aware of him; its sadness shot a pang of
reproach through him. Then a great light, as of wonder and joy, came
into the dark eyes, and glorified the pale, passionate face. But it was
only a flash that faded, leaving the cheeks more pallid than before, the
lips quivering.

"Mr. Leon!" she muttered.

He raised his hat, then held out a trembling hand that closed upon hers
with a grip that hurt her.

"I'm so glad to see you again!" he said, with unconcealed enthusiasm. "I
have been meaning to write to you for days--care of your publishers. I
wonder if you will ever forgive me!"

"You had nothing to write to me," she said, striving to speak coldly.

"Oh yes, I had!" he protested.

She shook her head.

"Our journalistic relations are over--there were no others."

"Oh!" he said reproachfully, feeling his heart grow chill. "Surely we
were friends?"

She d