the profound silence continued.  For my part, I was so much absorbed in my reflections on the things I had seen that I had nothing to say, and the strange personality of the man made me wish to let him begin upon his own subject, if perchance I might gain some insight into his mind and mode of thought.  There are times when silence seems to be sacred, even unaccountably so.  A feeling is in us that to speak would be almost a sacrilege, though we are unable to account in any way for the pause.  At such moments every one seems instinctively to feel the same influence, and the first person who breaks the spell either experiences a sensation of awkwardness, and says something very foolish, or, conscious of the odds against him, delivers himself of a sentiment of ponderous severity and sententiousness.  As I smoked, watching the great flaming bowl of the water pipe, a little coal, forced up by the expansion of the heat, toppled over the edge and fell tinkling on the metal foot below.  The quick ear of the servant on the steps caught the sound, and he rose and came forward to trim the fire.  Though he did not speak, his act was a diversion.  The spell was broken.

“The Germans,” said Isaacs, “say that an angel is passing over the house.  I do not believe it.”

I was surprised at the remark.  It did not seem quite natural for Mr. Isaacs to begin talking about the Germans, and from the tone of his voice I could almost have fancied he thought the proverb was held as an article of faith by the Teutonic races in general.

“I do not believe it,” he repeated reflectively.  “There is no such thing as an angel ‘passing’; it is a misuse of terms.  If there are such things as angels, their changes of place cannot be described as motion, seeing that from the very nature of things such changes must be instantaneous, not involving time as a necessary element.  Have you ever thought much about angels?  By-the-bye, pardon my abruptness, but as there is no one to introduce us, what is your name?”

“My name is Griggs—­Paul Griggs.  I am an American, but was born in Italy.  I know your name is Isaacs; but, frankly, I do not comprehend how you came by the appellation, for I do not believe you are either, English, American, or Jewish of origin.”

“Quite right,” he replied, “I am neither Yankee, Jew, nor beef-eater; in fact, I am not a European at all.  And since you probably would not guess my nationality, I will tell you that I am a Persian, a pure Iranian, a degenerate descendant of Zoroaster, as you call him, though by religion I follow the prophet, whose name be blessed,” he added, with an expression of face I did not then understand.  “I call myself Isaacs for convenience in business.  There is no concealment about it, as many know my story; but it has an attractive Semitic twang that suite my occupation, and is simpler and shorter for Englishmen to write than Abdul Hafizben-Isak, which is my lawful name.”