The Reb liked his fire. When it sank on the Sabbath he could not give orders to the _Shiksah_ to replenish it, but he would rub his hands and remark casually (in her hearing), "Ah, how cold it is!" "Yes," he said now, "I always freeze on _Shabbos_ when thou hast dismissed thy _Shiksah_. Thou makest me catch one cold a month." "_I_ make thee catch cold!" said the Rebbitzin. "When thou comest through the air of winter in thy shirt-sleeves! Thou'lt fall back upon me for poultices and mustard plasters. And then thou expectest me to have enough money to pay a _Shiksah_ into the bargain! If I have any more of thy _Schnorrers_ coming here I shall bundle them out neck and crop." This was the moment selected by Fate and Melchitsedek Pinchas for the latter's entry. CHAPTER VII. THE NEO-HEBREW POET. He came through the open street door, knocked perfunctorily at the door of the room, opened it and then kissed the _Mezuzah_ outside the door. Then he advanced, snatched the Rebbitzin's hand away from the handle of the coffee-pot and kissed it with equal devotion. He then seized upon Hannah's hand and pressed his grimy lips to that, murmuring in German: "Thou lookest so charming this morning, like the roses of Carmel." Next he bent down and pressed his lips to the Reb's coat-tail. Finally he said: "Good morning, sir," to Levi, who replied very affably, "Good morning, Mr. Pinchas," "Peace be unto you, Pinchas," said the Reb. "I did not see you in _Shool_ this morning, though it was the New Moon." "No, I went to the Great _Shool_," said Pinchas in German. "If you do not see me at your place you may be sure I'm somewhere else. Any one who has lived so long as I in the Land of Israel cannot bear to pray without a quorum. In the Holy Land I used to learn for an hour in the _Shool_ every morning before the service began. But I am not here to talk about myself. I come to ask you to do me the honor to accept a copy of my new volume of poems: _Metatoron's Flames_. Is it not a beautiful title? When Enoch was taken up to heaven while yet alive, he was converted to flames of fire and became Metatoron, the great spirit of the Cabalah. So am I rapt up into the heaven of lyrical poetry and I become all fire and flame and light." The poet was a slim, dark little man, with long, matted black hair. His face was hatchet-shaped and not unlike an Aztec's. The eyes were informed by an eager brilliance. He had a heap of little paper-covered books in one hand and an extinct cigar in the other. He placed the books upon the breakfast table. "At last," he said. "See, I have got it printed--the great work which this ignorant English Judaism has left to moulder while it pays its stupid reverends thousands a year for wearing white ties." "And who paid for it now, Mr. Pinchas?" said the Rebbitzin. "Who? Wh-o-o?" stammered Melchitsedek. "Who but myself?" "But you say you are blood-poor."