work did he perform in his life, never a day did he stand in the
market-place where the weaker were falling day by day. In fat
comfort he lived, and he died fittingly on the portals of a
restaurant, the cost of one meal at which would have fed a dozen
starving children. Pity Rosario! Pity his soul, if you will, but not
his dirty body!"

"The man is dead," Arnold muttered.

"Dead, and let him rot!" Isaac cried fiercely. "There may be
others!"

He caught up his cloth cap and, without another word, left the room.
Arnold looked after him curiously, more than a little impressed by
the man's passionate earnestness. Ruth, on the other hand, was
unmoved.

"Isaac is Isaac," she murmured. "He sees life like that. He would
wear the flesh off his bones preaching against wealth. It is as
though there were some fire inside which consumed him all the time.
When he comes back, he will be calmer."

But Arnold remained uneasy. Isaac's words, and his attitude of
pent-up fury, had made a singular impression upon him. For those few
moments, the Hyde Park demagogue with his frothy vaporings existed
no longer. It seemed to Arnold as though a flash of the real fire
had suddenly blazed into the room.

"If Isaac goes about the world like that, trouble will come of it,"
he said thoughtfully. "Have you ever heard him speak of Rosario