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, "are n'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 would n't be of 'the chosen race' if they did n'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 noses and their sharp, searching eyes."
It was now broad daylight. Ephraim drew down the blinds.
"The blinds are too white . . ." Ascher muttered, and moving a chair forward, he sat down upon it with his back to the window.
Ephraim proceeded to wind the phylacteries round his arm, and commenced to say his prayers softly.
