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‘Then she can’t return till the close of the concert,’ he said eagerly. ‘Won’t you come outside and walk a bit under this beautiful moon?’

She came out without a word, with the simplicity of a comrade.

‘Yes, it is a beautiful night,’ she said, ‘and very soon I shall be in Russia.’

‘But is Mrs. Wilhammer going to Russia, then?’ he asked, with a sudden thought, wondering that it had never occurred to him before.

‘Of course not! I only joined her for this voyage. I have to work my passage, you see, and Providence, on the eve of sailing, robbed Mrs. Wilhammer of her maid.’

‘Oh!’ he murmured in relief. His red-haired muse was going back to her social pedestal. ‘But you must have found it humiliating,’ he said.

‘Humiliating?’ She laughed cheerfully. ‘Why more than manicuring her?’

The muse shivered again on the pedestal.

‘Manicuring?’ he echoed in dismay.

‘Sure!’ she laughed in American. ‘When, after a course of starvation and medicine at Berne University, I found I had to get a new degree for America….’

‘You are a doctor?’ he interrupted.

‘And, therefore, peculiarly serviceable as a ship-maid.’

She smiled again, and her smile in the moonlight reminded him of a rippling passage of Chopin. Prosaic enough, however, was what she went on to tell him of her struggle for life by day and for learning by night. ‘Of course, I could only attend the night medical school. I lived by lining cloaks with fur; my bed was the corner of a room inhabited by a whole family. A would-be graduate could not be seen with bundles; for fetching and carrying the work my good landlady extorted twenty cents to the dollar. When the fur season was slack I cooked in a restaurant, worked a typewriter, became a “hello girl”–at a telephone, you know–reported murder cases–anything, everything.’

‘Manicuring,’ he recalled tenderly.

‘Manicuring,’ she repeated smilingly. ‘And you ask me if it is humiliating to wait upon an artistic sea-sick lady!’

‘Artistic!’ he sneered. His heart was full of pity and indignation.

‘As surely as sea-sick!’ she rejoined laughingly. ‘Why are you prejudiced against her?’

He flushed. ‘Prej-prejudiced?’ he stammered. ‘Why should I be prejudiced? From all I hear it’s she that’s prejudiced. It’s a wonder she took a Jewess into her service.’

‘Where’s the wonder? Don’t the Southerners have negro servants?’ she asked quietly.

His flush deepened. ‘You compare Jews to negroes!’

‘I apologize to the negroes. The blacks have at least Liberia. There is a black President, a black Parliament. We have nothing, nothing!’

‘We!’ Again that ambiguous plural. But he still instinctively evaded co-classification.

‘Nothing?’ he retorted. ‘I should have said everything. Every gift of genius that Nature can shower from her cornucopia.’

‘Jewish geniuses!’ Her voice had a stinging inflection. ‘Don’t talk to me of our geniuses; it is they that have betrayed us. Every other people has its great men; but our great men–they belong to every other people. The world absorbs our sap, and damns us for our putrid remains. Our best must pipe alien tunes and dance to the measures of the heathen. They build and paint; they write and legislate. But never a song of Israel do they fashion, nor a picture of Israel, nor a law of Israel, nor a temple of Israel. Bah! What are they but hirelings?’

Again the passion of her patriotism uplifted and enkindled him. Yes, it was true. He, too, was but a hireling. But he would become a Master; he would go back–back to the Ghetto, and this noble Jewess should be his mate. Thank God he had kept himself free for her. But ere he could pour out his soul, the bouncing San Franciscan actress appeared suddenly at his elbow, risking a last desperate assault, discharging a pathetic tale of a comedian with a cold. Rozenoffski repelled the attack savagely, but before he could exhaust the enemy’s volubility his red-haired companion had given him a friendly nod and smile, and retreated into her shrine of duty.