"Our bedroom. There should be a record on the walls; there should, indeed, be a record, such as is placed outside those houses in London which have been inhabited by famous people. Failing that, it is in the power of every man, assuredly of every rich man, to make for himself a record that shall be imperishable--far better, my dear sir, than the mere fixing of a plate on a cold stone wall." Mr. Whimpole gazed at Aaron Cohen to discover if there was any trace of mockery in his face, but Aaron was perfectly grave and serious. "A man's humility," said Mr. Whimpole, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "his sense of humbleness, would prevent him from making this record for himself. It has to be left to others to do it when they have found him out." "Aha, my dear sir!" said Aaron softly, "when they have found him out. True! true! but how few of us are! How few of us receive our just reward! How few of us, when we are in our graves, receive or deserve the tribute, 'Here lies a perfect man'! But the record I speak of will never be lost by a rich man's humility, by his humbleness, for it can be written unostentatiously in the hearts of the poor by the aid of silver and gold." "I understand you, Mr. Cohen," said Mr. Whimpole inwardly confounding Aaron's flow of ideas, "by means of charity." "Yes, sir, by means of charity. There is an old legend that a man's actions in life are marked in the air above him, in the places in which they are performed. There, in invisible space, are inscribed the records of his good and bad deeds, of his virtues, of his crimes; and when he dies his soul visits those places, and views the immortal writing which is visible to all the angels in heaven, and which covers him with shame or glory. Gosport, doubtless, has many such records of your charity." "I do my best," said Mr. Whimpole, very much confused and mystified, "I hope I do my best. I said I would disguise nothing from you; I will, therefore, be quite frank, with no intention of wounding you. I am a strictly religious man, Mr. Cohen, and it hurts me that one whose religious belief is opposed to my own should inhabit the house in which I was born. I will give you a hundred and twenty pounds for the lease; that will leave you a profit of twenty pounds. Come, now!" "I will not accept less for it, sir, than the sum I named." "Is that your last word?" "It is my last word." Mr. Whimpole rose with a face of scarlet, and clapped his hat on his head. "You are a--a----" "A Jew. Leave it at that. Can you call me anything worse?" asked Aaron with no show of anger. "No, I cannot. You are a Jew." "I regret," said Aaron calmly, "that I cannot retort by calling you a Christian. May our next meeting be more agreeable! Good-evening, Mr. Whimpole."