A flash passed across Goldsmith's face, then he considered a moment. 'I wish you would let it be a guinea,' he said. 'Quite nominal, you know. Only I like to have things in proper form. And if ever you want to go, you know, you'll give me a month's notice and,' here he laughed genially, 'I'll do ditto when I want to get rid of you. Ha! ha! ha! Is that a bargain?' Raphael smiled in reply, and the two men's hands met in a hearty clasp. 'Miss Ansell will help you, I know,' said Goldsmith cheerily; 'that girl's got it in her, I can tell you. She'll take the shine out of some of our West-Enders. Do you know, I picked her out of the gutter, so to speak?' 'Yes, I know,' said Raphael. 'It was very good and discriminating of you. How is she?' 'She's all right; come up and see her about doing something for you. She goes to the Museum sometimes in the afternoons, but you'll always find her in on Sundays--or most Sundays. Come up and dine with us again soon, will you? Mrs. Goldsmith will be so pleased.' 'I will,' said Raphael fervently; and when the door closed upon the communal pillar, he fell to striding feverishly about his little den. His trust in human nature was restored, and the receding wave of scepticism bore off again the image of Esther Ansell. Now to work for Judaism! The sub-editor made his first appearance that day, carolling joyously. 'Sampson,' said Raphael abruptly, 'your salary is raised by a guinea a week.' The joyous song died away on Little Sampson's lips; his eye-glass dropped; he let himself fall backwards, impinging noiselessly upon a heap of 'returns' of number one. CHAPTER V A WOMAN'S GROWTH The sloppy Sunday afternoon, which was the first opportunity Raphael had of profiting by Mr. Henry Goldsmith's general invitation to call and see Esther, happened to be that selected by the worthy couple for a round of formal visits. Esther was left at home with a headache, little expecting pleasanter company. She hesitated about receiving Raphael, but on hearing that he had come to see her rather than her patrons, she smoothed her hair, put on a prettier frock, and went down into the drawing-room, where she found him striding restlessly in bespattered boots and moist overcoat. When he became aware of her presence, he went towards her eagerly, and shook her hand with jerky awkwardness. 'How are you?' he said heartily. 'Very well, thank you,' she replied automatically; then a twinge as of reproach at the falsehood darted across her brow, and she added: 'A trifle of the usual headache. I hope you are well?' 'Quite, thank you,' he rejoined. His face rather contradicted him; it looked thin, pale, and weary. Journalism writes lines on the healthiest countenance. Esther looked at him disapprovingly; she had the woman's artistic instinct, if not the artist's, and Raphael, with his damp overcoat, everlastingly crumpled at the collar, was not an æsthetic object.