he was not able to repudiate such an opportunity of that more pious form of grace which needs the presence of three males. "Oh, I should be very glad for you to stay," said the Rabbi, "but, unfortunately, we have only three meat-plates." "Oh, de dish vill do for me." "Very well, then!" said the Rabbi. And Yankelé, with the old mad heart-beat, took the fourth chair, darting a triumphant glance at the still sniggering Manasseh. The hostess rose, misunderstanding her husband's optical signals, and fished out a knife and fork from the recesses of a chiffonier. The host first heaped his own plate high with artistically coloured potatoes and stiff meat—less from discourtesy than from life-long habit—then divided the remainder in unequal portions between Manasseh and the little woman, in rough correspondence with their sizes. Finally, he handed Yankelé the empty dish. "You see there is nothing left," he said simply. "We didn't even expect one visitor." [93] [93] [94] [94] "First come, first served," observed Manasseh, with his sphinx-like expression, as he fell-to. Yankelé sat frozen, staring blankly at the dish, his brain as empty. He had lost. Such a dinner was a hollow mockery—like the dish. He could not expect Manasseh to accept it, quibbled he ever so cunningly. He sat for a minute or two as in a dream, the music of knife and fork ringing mockingly in his ears, his hungry palate moistened by the delicious savour. Then he shook off his stupor, and all his being was desperately astrain, questing for an idea. Manasseh discoursed with his host on neo-Hebrew literature. "We thought of starting a journal at Grodno," said the Rabbi, "only the funds—" "Be you den a native of Grodno?" interrupted Yankelé. "Yes, I was born there," mumbled the Rabbi, "but I left there twenty years ago." His mouth was full, and he did not cease to ply the cutlery. "Ah!" said Yankelé enthusiastically, "den you must be de famous preacher everybody speaks of. I do not remember you
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