that odd figure, so strangely seated on the pavement,
I had chanced on the very features, the haunting sadness and mystery
of which I had been so long in quest. I wondered at the simplicity
with which he was able to maintain a pose so essentially undignified.
I told myself I beheld the East squatted broodingly as on a divan,
while the West paraded with parasol and Prayer-Book. I wondered that
the beadles were unobservant of him. Were they content with his
abstention from the holy ground of the Church Parade, and the less
sacred seats on the promenade without, or would they, if their eyes
drew towards him, move him on from further profaning those frigidly
respectable windows and stuccoed portals?

At last I said: 'Good-morning.' And he rose hurriedly and began to
move away uncomplainingly, as one used to being hounded from
everywhere.

'_Guten Morgen_,' I said in German, with a happy inspiration, for in
my futile search in London I had found that a corrupt German called
Yiddish usually proved a means of communication.

He paused, as if reassured. '_Gut' Morgen_,' he murmured; and then I
saw that his stature was kingly, like that of the sons of Anak, and
his manner a strange blend of majesty and humility.

'Pardon me,' I went on, in my scrupulously worst German, 'may I ask
you a question?'

He made a curious movement of acquiescence, compounded of a shrug and
a slight uplifting of his palms.

'Are you in need of work?'

'And why do you wish to know?' he replied, answering, as I had already
found was the Jewish way, one question by another.

'I thought I could find you some,' I said.

'Have you scrolls of the Law for me to write?' he replied
incredulously. 'You are not even a Jew.'

'Still, there may be something,' I replied. 'Let us walk along.'

I felt that the beadle's eye was at last drawn to us both, and I
hurried my model down a side-street. I noticed he hobbled as if
footsore. He did not understand what I wanted, but he understood a
pound a week, for he was starving, and when I said he must leave
Brighton for London, he replied, awe-struck: 'It is the finger of
God.' For in London were his wife and children.

His name was Israel Quarriar, his country Russia.

The picture was begun on Monday morning. Israel Quarriar's presence
dignified the studio. It was thrilling and stimulating to see his
noble figure and tragic face, the head drooped humbly, the beard like
a prophet's.

'It is the finger of Go