They were not rich, not “smart,” not politically important; but in their own fashion they were people of the very best sort, true aristocrats, such as few remain to us in these degenerate days.
For generations they had borne the reputation of high personal character and of scholarly attainment. They were, in the true sense of the word, exclusive; and their pride was of that nature which, as the poet has it, asserts an inward honour by denying outward show.
The friendship existing between Lord Norwood and Leo was founded on mutual admiration.
The Jew’s many-sided talent, his brilliant scholarship, his mental quickness and versatility, above all, his musical genius, had fairly dazzled the scholarly young Englishman, who loved art, but had not a drop of artist’s blood in his veins.
Leo, on his part, had fallen down before the other’s refinement of mind and soul and body, and before the delicate strength of his character.
It was a strange friendship perhaps, but one which had stood, and was destined long to stand, the test of time.
Meanwhile Reuben, who knew that it is half the battle not to know when you are vanquished, quietly invited Lord Norwood to join them at table.
He pleaded, coldly, an appointment with a friend, and after a few words with Leo withdrew to a further apartment.
Leo had taken in the slight, brief, yet significant episode in all its bearings, hating himself meanwhile for his own shrewdness, which he considered a mark of latent meanness.
Reuben returned thoughtfully, if quite composedly, to the discussion of his roast pheasant and potato chips.