"Melchitsedek Pinchas, the poet I told you of."
"I suppose he writes in Hebrew."
"No, if he did the translation would be plain sailing enough. The trouble is that he will write in English. I must admit, though, he improves daily. Our correspondents, too, have the same weakness for the vernacular, and I grieve to add that when they do introduce a Hebrew word, they do not invariably spell it correctly."
She smiled; her smile was never so fascinating as by firelight.
Raphael rose and paced the room nervously, flinging out his arms in uncouth fashion to emphasize his speech.
"I was thinking you might introduce a secular department of some sort which would brighten up the paper. My articles are so plaguy dull."
"Not so dull, for religious articles," she assured him.
"Could you treat Jewish matters from a social standpoint—gossipy sort of thing."
She shook her head. "I'm afraid to trust myself to write on Jewish subjects. I should be sure to tread on somebody's corns."
"Oh, I have it!" he cried, bringing his arms in contact with a small Venetian vase which Esther, with great presence of mind, just managed to catch ere it reached the ground.