"Never," Ephraim assured him.

"Let me see, wait..." whispered Ascher.

The three well-known knocks now resounded upon their own door, then the
shadow of a passing figure was thrown upon the opposite wall. With a
sigh of relief, the words escaped Ascher's bosom:

"He did not look inside..." he muttered to himself.

Then he removed his hand from the door-knob, came back into the centre
of the room, and approaching the table, rested his hand upon it.

"Ephraim..." he said after a while, in that suppressed tone which seemed
to be peculiar to him, "aren't you going to synagogue?"

"No, father," replied Ephraim, "I'm not going to-day."

"But they'll want to know," Ascher observed, and at the words an ugly
sneer curled the corners of his lip; "they'll want to know who your
guest is. Why don't you go and tell them?"

"Father!" cried Ephraim.

"Then be good enough to draw down the blinds. ...What business is it of
theirs who your guest is? Let them attend to their own affairs... But
they wouldn't be of 'the chosen race' if they didn't want to know what
was taking place in the furthermost corner of your brain. You can't be
too careful with them...you're never secure against their far-scenting