'A little. The doctor says I studied too much and worked too hard when a little girl. Such is the punishment of perseverance. Life isn't like the copy-books.' 'Oh, but I wonder your parents let you over-exert yourself.' A melancholy smile played about the mobile lips. 'I brought myself up,' she said. 'You look puzzled. Oh, I know! Confess you think I'm Miss Goldsmith!' 'Why--are--you not?' he stammered. 'No, my name is Ansell--Esther Ansell.' 'Pardon me. I am so bad at remembering names in introductions. But I've just come back from Oxford, and it's the first time I've been to this house, and seeing you here without a cavalier when we arrived, I thought you lived here.' 'You thought rightly; I do live here.' She laughed gently at his changing expression. 'I wonder Sidney never mentioned you to me,' he said. 'Do you mean Mr. Graham?' she said, with a slight blush. 'Yes? I know he visits here.' 'Oh, he is an artist. He has eyes only for the beautiful.' She spoke quickly, a little embarrassed. 'You wrong him; his interests are wider than that.' 'Do you know, I am so glad you didn't pay me the obvious compliment,' she said, recovering herself. 'It looked as if I were fishing for it. I'm so stupid.' He looked at her blankly. '_I_'m stupid,' he said, 'for I don't know what compliment I missed paying.' 'If you regret it, I shall not think so well of you,' she said. 'You know I've heard all about your brilliant success at Oxford.' 'They put all those petty little things in the Jewish papers, don't they?' 'I read it in the _Times_,' retorted Esther. 'You took a double-first and the prize for poetry, and a heap of other things; but I noticed the prize for poetry, because it is so rare to find a Jew writing poetry.' 'Prize poetry is not poetry,' he reminded her. 'But considering the Jewish Bible contains the finest poetry in the world, I do not see why you should be surprised to find a Jew trying to write some.' 'Oh, you know what I mean,' answered Esther. 'What is the use of talking about the old Jews? We seem to be a different race now. Who cares for poetry?' 'Our poet's scroll reaches on uninterruptedly through the Middle Ages. The passing phenomenon of to-day must not blind us to the real traits of our race,' said Raphael. 'Nor must we be blind to the passing phenomenon of to-day,' retorted Esther. 'We have no ideals now.' 'I see Sidney has been infecting you,' he said gently. 'No, no; I beg you will not think that,' she said, flushing almost resentfully. 'I have thought these things, as the Scripture tells us to meditate on the Law, day and night, sleeping and waking, standing up and sitting down.' 'You cannot have thought of them without prejudice, then,' he answered,'if you say we have no ideals.' 'I mean, we're not responsive to great poetry--to the message of a Browning, for instance.'