Bertie, at a sign from Reuben, rose to the situation, and stooping for his own hat with alacrity, drew it from its place of concealment and placed it on his head. By this time all the men had unearthed and assumed their head-gear, with the exception of Samuel Sachs, whose hat by some mischance was not forthcoming; however, to avoid delay, he covered his head in all gravity with his table-napkin. Bertie glanced round him, from one face to another, puzzled and inquiring. It seemed to him a solemn moment, this gathering together of kinsfolk after the long day of prayer, of expiation; this offering up of thanksgiving; this performance of the ancient rites in the land of exile. He could not understand the spirit of indifference, of levity even, which appeared to prevail. A finer historic sense, other motives apart, should, it seemed, have prevented so obvious a display of the contempt which familiarity had bred. Alec had put his hat on rakishly askew, and was winking across to him re-assuringly, as though to intimate that the whole thing was not to be taken seriously. Rose, led on by Jack Quixano, giggled hysterically behind her pocket-handkerchief. Leo and Esther took on airs of aggressive boredom. Judith, lifting her eyes, met Reuben’s in a smile, and even Montague Cohen permitted himself to yawn. Only old Solomon at the head of the table, mumbling and droning out the long grace in his corrupt Hebrew--his great face impenetrably grave--appeared to take any interest in the proceeding, with perhaps the exception of his son Samuel, who joined in now and then from beneath the drooping shelter of his table-napkin. Bertie stared and Bertie wondered. Needless to state, he was completely out of touch with these people whose faith his search for the true religion had led him, for the time being, to embrace. Grace over, the women went up stairs, the men, with the exception of old Solomon, remaining behind to smoke. Bertie, who was thoroughly tired out, soon rose to go. “I will make your excuses up stairs,” said Reuben. But the polite little man preferred to go to the drawing-room and perform his farewells in person. “Thanks so much,” he said in the hall, where Leo and Reuben were speeding him. “I hope you have been edified--that’s all.” Reuben laughed. “I am deeply interested in the Jewish character,” answered Bertie; “the strongly marked contrasts; the underlying resemblances; the elaborate differentiations from a fundamental type--!” “Ah, yes,” broke in Reuben, secretly irritated, his tribal sensitiveness a little hurt, “you will find among us all sorts and conditions of men.” “Except perhaps Don Quixote, or even King Cophetua,” added Leo. “King Cophetua,” repeated Reuben in a slow, reflective tone, as the door closed on Mr. Lee-Harrison; “King Cophetua had an assured position. It isn’t every one that can afford to marry beggar-maids.” CHAPTER IX.