Leopold Leuniger was on the eve of his third year at Cambridge.
“What have you been doing this Long?”
“Oh ... staying about.”
“Leo has been stopping with Lord Norwood, but we are not allowed to mention it,” cried Rose in her loud, penetrating voice, “in case it should seem that we are proud.”
Leo, who was passing through a sensitive phase of his growth, winced visibly, and Reuben said in a matter-of-fact way: “Oh, by the by, I came across a cousin of Lord Norwood’s abroad—Lee-Harrison; a curious fellow, but a good fellow.”
“A howling swell,” added Esther, “with a double-barrelled name.”
“Exactly. But the point about him is that he has gone over body and soul to the Jewish community.”
There was an ironical exclamation all round. The Jews, the most clannish and exclusive of peoples, the most keen to resent outside criticism, can say hard things of one another within the walls of the ghetto.
“He says himself,” went on Reuben, “that he has a taste for religion. I believe he flirted with the Holy Mother for some years, but didn’t get caught. Then he joined a set of mystics, and lived for three months on a mountain, somewhere in Asia Minor. Now he has come round to thinking Judaism the one religion, and has been regularly received into the synagogue.”
“And expects, no doubt,” said Esther, “to be rejoiced over as the one sinner that repenteth. I hope you didn’t shatter his illusions by telling him that he would more likely be considered a fool for his pains?”