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“what would you have us do?”
    â€œBut are we in default of a better?” Considine asked. “Surely we’re not like that poor wretch Rosenberg who couldn’t live by his imagination, but died starved, for all his stomach and his mind.”
    â€œSo far,” Sir Bernard said, “both the stomach and the mind seem normally necessary to man.”
    â€œO so far!” Considine answered, “and normally! But it’s the farther and the abnormal to which we must look. When men are in love, when they are in the midst of creating, when they are in a religious flame, what do they need then either with the stomach or the mind?”
    â€œThose,” Sir Bernard said, “are abnormal states from which they return.”
    â€œMore’s the pity,” Roger said suddenly. “It’s true, you know. In the real states of exaltation one doesn’t seem to need food.”
    â€œSo,” said Considine, smiling at him. “The poets have taught you something, Mr. Ingram.”
    â€œ But one returns,” Sir Bernard protested plaintively, “and then one does need food. And reason,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
    Considine was looking at Roger. “Will you say that one must?” he asked in a lower voice; and “O how the devil do I know?” Roger said impatiently. “I say that one does, but I daren’t say that one must. And it’s folly either way.”
    â€œDon’t believe it,” Considine answered, his voice low and vibrating. “There’s more to it than that.”
    The words left a silence behind them for a moment, as if they were a summons. Roger kicked the pavement. Philip waited patiently. Presently Sir Bernard said, “Do you know the legatees by any chance, Mr. Considine?”
    Considine’s eyes glowed. “Now there,” he said, “if you like irony you have it. Yes, I know them—at least I know of them. I knew the family very well once. They are strict Jews, living in London because they are too poor to return to Jerusalem. They live in London and they abominate the Gentiles of London. They are fanatically—insanely, you would say—devoted to the tradition of Israel. They live, almost without food, Sir Bernard, studying the Law and nourished by the Law. They are the children of a second birth indeed, and they exist in the other life to which they were born. What do you think they will do with Simon Rosenberg’s fortune and Simon Rosenberg’s jewels?”
    â€œThey could, I suppose, refuse it,” Sir Bernard said.
    â€œCouldn’t they use it to improve conditions in Palestine?” Philip asked, willing to appear interested.
    Considine looked at Roger, who said, “I don’t know the tradition of Israel. Are jewels and fortunes any use to it?”
    â€œOr will they think so?” Considine answered. “I do not know. But it was a Jew who saw the foundations of the Holy City splendid with a beauty for which the names of jewels were the only comparison. We think of jewels chiefly as wealth, but I doubt if the John of the Apocalypse did, and I doubt if the Rosenbergs will. Perhaps he saw them as mirrors and shells of original colour. However, I suppose, as one of the executors, it will be my business to find out soon.”
    â€œIt’s extraordinarily interesting,” Sir Bernard said. “Do, my dear Mr. Considine, let us know. Come and dine with me one day. I’ve something else I want to ask you.”
    On the point of making his farewells Considine paused.
    â€œSomething you want to ask me ?” he said.
    â€œA mere nothing,” Sir Bernard answered. “I should like to know what relation you are to a photograph of you that I took fifty years ago.”
    Roger stared. Philip moved uneasily; his father did put things in the most ridiculous way.
    â€œA photograph of me,” Considine repeated softly, “that you took fifty