ne
speaks one's thoughts of the mess humanity has made of its world. But,
unfortunately, the Mayoress of Middleton was deafish, so that he
could not even shock her with his epigrams. It was extremely
disconcerting to have his bland blasphemies met with an equally bland
smile. On his other hand sat Mrs. Samuels, the buxom and highly
charitable relict of 'The People's Clothier,' whose ugly pictorial
posters had overshadowed Barstein's youth. Little wonder that the
artist's glance frequently wandered across the great shining table
towards a girl who, if they had not been so plaguily intent on
honouring his fame, might have now been replacing the Mayoress at his
side. True, the girl was merely a Jewess, and he disliked the breed.
But Mabel Aaronsberg was unexpected. She had a statuesque purity of
outline and complexion; seemed, indeed, worthy of being a creation of
his own. How the tedious old manufacturer could have produced this
marmoreal prodigy provided a problem for the sculptor, as he almost
silently ate his way through the long and exquisite menu.

Not that Sir Asher himself was unpicturesque. Indeed, he was the very
picture of the bluff and burly Briton, white-bearded like Father
Christmas. But he did not seem to lead to yonder vision of poetry and
purity. Lady Aaronsberg, who might have supplied the missing link, was
dead--before even arriving at ladyship, alas!--and when she was alive
Barstein had not enjoyed the privilege of moving in these high
municipal circles. This he owed entirely to his foreign fame, and to
his invitation by the Corporation to help in the organization of a
local Art Exhibition.

'I do admire Sir Asher,' the Mayoress broke in suddenly upon his
reflections; 'he seems to me exactly like your patriarchs.'

A Palestinian patriarch was the last person Sir Asher, with his
hovering lackeys, would have recalled to the sculptor, who, in so far
as the patriarchs ever crossed his mind, conceived them as resembling
Rembrandt's Rabbis. But he replied blandly: 'Our patriarchs were
polygamists.'

'Exactly,' assented the deaf Mayoress.

Barstein, disconcerted, yearned to repeat his statement in a shout,
but neither the pitch nor the proposition seemed suitable to the
dinner-table. The Mayoress added ecstatically: 'You can imagine him
sitting at the door of his tent, talking with the angels.'

This time Barstein did shout, but with laughter. All eyes turned a bit
enviously in his direction. 'You're h