"Ah, my benefactor, my benefactor!" he cried, in a joyous frenzy. "Now vill I give it to English Judaism. She is in my power. Oh, my benefactor!"
"No, no," said Raphael, disengaging himself. "I have nothing to do with it."
"But de paper—she is yours!" said the poet, forgetting his English in his excitement.
"No, I am only the editor. I have been dismissed, and you are appointed instead of me."
Pinchas dropped back into his chair like a lump of lead. He hung his head again and folded his arms.
"Then they get not me for editor," he said moodily.
"Nonsense, why not?" said Raphael, flushing.
"Vat you think me?" Pinchas asked indignantly. "Do you think I have a stone for a heart like Gideon M.P. or your English stockbrokers and Rabbis? No, you shall go on being editor. They think you are not able enough, not orthodox enough—they vant me—but do not fear. I shall not accept."
"But then what will become of the next number?" remonstrated Raphael, touched. "I must not edit it."
"Vat you care? Let her die!" cried Pinchas, in gloomy complacency. "You have made her; vy should she survive you? It is not right another should valk in your shoes—least of all, I."