IV
Barstein was sitting outside a café in Rome sipping vermouth with Rozenoffski, the Russo-Jewish pianist, and Schneemann the Galician-Jewish painter, when he next heard from Nehemiah.
He was anxiously expecting an important letter, which he had instructed his studio-assistant to bring to him instantly. So when the man appeared, he seized with avidity upon the envelope in his hand. But the scrawling superscription at once dispelled his hope, and recalled the forgotten Luftmensch. He threw the letter impatiently on the table.
'Oh, you may read it,' his friends protested, misunderstanding.
'I can guess what it is,' he said grumpily. Here, in this classical atmosphere, in this southern sunshine, he felt out of sympathy with the gaunt godly Nehemiah, who had doubtless lapsed again into his truly troublesome tribulations. Not a penny more for the ne'er-do-well! Let his Providence look after him!
'Is she beautiful?' quizzed Schneemann.
Barstein roared with laughter. His irate mood was broken up. Nehemiah as a petticoated romance was too tickling.
'You shall read the letter,' he said.
Schneemann protested comically. 'No, no, that would be ungentlemanly—you read to us what the angel says.'