Sidney Graham was one of those favorites of society who are allowed Touchstone’s license.  He had just as little wish to reform, and just as much wish to abuse society as society has to be reformed and abused.  He was a dark, bright-eyed young artist with a silky moustache.  He had lived much in Paris, where he studied impressionism and perfected his natural talent for causerie and his inborn preference for the hedonistic view of life.  Fortunately he had plenty of money, for he was a cousin of Raphael Leon on the mother’s side, and the remotest twigs of the Leon genealogical tree bear apples of gold.  His real name was Abrahams, which is a shade too Semitic.  Sidney was the black sheep of the family; good-natured to the core and artistic to the finger-tips, he was an avowed infidel in a world where avowal is the unpardonable sin.  He did not even pretend to fast on the Day of Atonement.  Still Sidney Graham was a good deal talked of in artistic circles, his name was often in the newspapers, and so more orthodox people than Mrs. Henry Goldsmith were not averse from having him at their table, though they would have shrunk from being seen at his.  Even cousin Addie, who had a charming religious cast of mind, liked to be with him, though she ascribed this to family piety.  For there is a wonderful solidarity about many Jewish families, the richer members of which assemble loyally at one another’s births, marriages, funerals, and card-parties, often to the entire exclusion of outsiders.  An ordinary well-regulated family (so prolific is the stream of life), will include in its bosom ample elements for every occasion.

“Really, Mr. Graham, I think you are wrong about the kosher meat,” said Mr. Henry Goldsmith.  “Our statistics show no falling-off in the number of bullocks killed, while there is a rise of two per cent, in the sheep slaughtered.  No, Judaism is in a far more healthy condition than pessimists imagine.  So far from sacrificing our ancient faith we are learning to see how tuberculosis lurks in the lungs of unexamined carcasses and is communicated to the consumer.  As for the members of the Shechitah Board not eating kosher, look at me.”

The only person who looked at the host was the hostess.  Her look was one of approval.  It could not be of aesthetic approval, like the look Percy Saville devoted to herself, for her husband was a cadaverous little man with prominent ears and teeth.

“And if Mr. Graham should ever join us on the Council of the United Synagogue,” added Montagu Samuels, addressing the table generally, “he will discover that there is no communal problem with which we do not loyally grapple.”

“No, thank you,” said Sidney, with a shudder.  “When I visit Raphael, I sometimes pick up a Jewish paper and amuse myself by reading the debates of your public bodies.  I understand most of your verbiage is edited away.”  He looked Montagu Samuels full in the face with audacious naivete.  “But there is enough left to show that our monotonous group of public men consists of narrow-minded mediocrities.  The chief public work they appear to do outside finance is when public exams, fall on Sabbaths or holidays, getting special dates for Jewish candidates to whom these examinations are the avenues to atheism.  They never see the joke.  How can they?  Why, they take even themselves seriously.”