He started and laughed.  “Yes, there’s no more tobacco in it.”  He laid it down.

“No, I insist on your going on or else I shall feel uncomfortable.  Where’s your pouch?”

He felt all over his pockets.  “It must be on the table.”

She rummaged among the mass of papers.  “Ha!  There are your scissors’” she said scornfully, turning them up.  She found the pouch in time and handed it to him.  “I ought to have the management of this office for a day,” she remarked again.

“Well, fill my pipe for me,” he said, with an audacious inspiration.  He felt an unreasoning impulse to touch her hand, to smooth her soft cheek with his fingers and press her eyelids down over her dancing eyes.  She filled the pipe, full measure and running over; he took it by the stem, her warm gloved fingers grazing his chilly bare hand and suffusing him with a delicious thrill.

“Now you must crown your work,” he said.  “The matches are somewhere about.”

She hunted again, interpolating exclamations of reproof at the risk of fire.

“They’re safety matches, I think,” he said.  They proved to be wax vestas.  She gave him a liquid glance of mute reproach that filled him with bliss as overbrimmingly as his pipe had been filled with bird’s eye; then she struck a match, protecting the flame scientifically in the hollow of her little hand.  Raphael had never imagined a wax vesta could be struck so charmingly.  She tip-toed to reach the bowl in his mouth, but he bent his tall form and felt her breath upon his face.  The volumes of smoke curled up triumphantly, and Esther’s serious countenance relaxed in a smile of satisfaction.  She resumed the conversation where it had been broken off by the idyllic interlude of the pipe.

“But if you can’t leave London, there’s plenty of recreation to be had in town.  I’ll wager you haven’t yet been to see Hamlet in lieu of the night you disappointed us.”

“Disappointed myself, you mean,” he said with a retrospective consciousness of folly.  “No, to tell the truth, I haven’t been out at all lately.  Life is so short.”

“Then, why waste it?”

“Oh come, I can’t admit I waste it,” he said, with a gentle smile that filled her with a penetrating emotion.  “You mustn’t take such material views of life.”  Almost in a whisper he quoted:  “To him that hath the kingdom of God all things shall be added,” and went on:  “Socialism is at least as important as Shakspeare.”

“Socialism,” she repeated.  “Are you a Socialist, then?”

“Of a kind,” he answered.  “Haven’t you detected the cloven hoof in my leaders?  I’m not violent, you know; don’t be alarmed.  But I have been doing a little mild propagandism lately in the evenings; land nationalization and a few other things which would bring the world more into harmony with the Law of Moses.”

“What! do you find Socialism, too, in orthodox Judaism?”

“It requires no seeking.”