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Establishment of one Augustus Mitchell, was less of a shop than a club, and less of a club than a sartorial chapel. Mr. Augustus Mitchell's clients did not enter his heavy swing-doors idly, carelessly or wantonly. They came reverently, soberly and discreetly to consult the High Priest of their temple upon matters of religious solemnity, the cut of a trouser, the width of a stripe, or a change in the shape of a collar so subtle that it would have been invisible to the untutored eye. None knew better than Mr. Mitchell the profound and mystic significance of that distance between two buttons on a waistcoat which makes all the differ ence between the well-groomed gentleman and the out sider.
    Mr. Joseph Isenbaum was aware of that significance, and he respected Mr. Mitchell's mastery of it. There were several things about Mr. Mitchell which he did not respect, but this knowledge of detail was impressive. Mr. Isenbaum was a ritualist by racial tradition. He knew what it meant to tithe anise and cummin, and to broaden or narrow the phylac teries. A Jew by birth, name and temperament, an exporter of agricultural implements by profession, a free-thinker by religion, a family man by accident, and a connoisseur by inclination, he regarded his visits to Mr. Mitchell's shop as unpleasant but sacred obligations.
    For Mr. Isenbaum cherished a wistful and often misplaced devotion to the Best. He maintained that a man's posses sions should be Few but Good, that his habits should be Restrained but Splendid, and that his associations should be Eclectic but Intimate. Unhappily his worship was ham pered by his limitations of taste and judgment. In pursuit of the Rare and Beautiful, he had filled his house at Rich mond with a catholic collection of monstrosities, picked up at auction sales all over London and the Home Counties. Though he went to Mitchell's for his clothes, the eccen tricity of his figure prevented even that master from fulfilling his highest possibilities. Though he belonged to two tolerable clubs, the dissonance of his name, and a certain hesita tion and obsequiousness of manner, prevented him from forming those few but choice friendships which he desired. His desire for a son involved him in a disastrous sequence of five daughters, at the end of which had come at long last his beloved, his Benjamin.
    Benjamin Isenbaum. Benjamin Isenbaum. As Mr. Isen baum sat on one September afternoon in Augustus Mitchell's shop, he repeated the name over and over to himself as though it were a painful yet exciting charm. Whenever Joseph had nothing else of special moment to think about, his thoughts turned to his son. Yet always the contempla tion hurt as well as comforted. For Joseph had inflicted upon this splendid son, this lamb without spot or blemish, this glorious boy, an intolerable burden. Benjamin Isen baum. Benjamin Isenbaum. What could a man do in the world with a name like that?
    Joseph had originally intended, if ever he had a son, to change his own name to Bauminster and to call the boy William or Richard. He had discussed the matter with his wife, who was content to acquiesce in all his decisions. As a free-thinker and modernist, he was bound by no tie of piety or interest to Judaism.
    But when it came to the point of taking out letters patent, the delicacy of spirit which was with him a motive stronger even than his paternal love, frustrated him. Three weeks before the birth of the boy, he heard an ex-Jew, Ferguson, whose father had been called Abrams, talking to a group of men about his recently acquired membership of a coveted club. 'Thank God,' cried Abrams-Ferguson. 'You can eat without meeting any Jews there!'
    Joseph saw the polite acquiescence of the Gentile listeners. His pride and his hunger for perfection combined in revolt against both the meanness which inspired Ferguson and the scorn which greeted him. He made a vow to the God in whom he professed enlightened disbelief that if he had a son he would call him Benjamin,