“Because I hate Palestine and everything connected with it!” she answered, a defiant ring in her voice. “I came here because I could not help myself—because—as a Jewess—I could no longer stay in the old country. I thought from Lady Montella’s letters that Haifa was a _beau ideal_ of a place; but she sees everything Jewish from behind rose-coloured spectacles. To me it is a desert with scarcely an oasis to break the monotony, with a climate as sultry as that of the Inferno, and an atmosphere of brick-dust and tar. Building to right of us, building to left of us—scaffoldings, ladders, and paint-pots; what is so depressing as a half-built town? And as for society—why, there isn’t any worth speaking of, because the people here will not recognise distinctions of class. Yesterday a poverty-stricken woman—an odious, unkempt individual—had the audacity to approach me in a most familiar manner, in order to tell me that she lived next door to my grandfather in Poland, and as my father was no better than hers, she thought she might claim me as a friend. That is the result of liberty and equality; we are all children of Abraham, and education counts for nothing. Oh, it’s disgusting! I hate it! Until Palestine gets a king and an aristocracy the country will not be worth living in to cultured Jews.” She raised herself on her arm, her eyes flaming with the emotion caused by her outburst. Ferdinand remarked the passion in her voice, and felt vaguely stirred. But she did not give him time to speak, and continued hurriedly: “I want to escape—to get away from Palestine, even at the risk of offending your step-mother. If I stay here while the country is in its present condition, I shall only droop and die. Sir Ferdinand, you are the only man in the world who can help me; but will you? I have no right—except that of old friendship with the Montellas—to ask you; and yet—” “I will help you with pleasure if I can,” he put in, unable to resist the pathetic look of appeal. “What is it you want me to do?” “You are going to England,” she said abruptly. “But England does not admit a Jew. Tell me: how do you intend to evade the authorities?” He flashed her a quick glance. “I have a special permit from a member of the Cabinet—Mr. Lawson Holmes,” he replied promptly. “I shall be allowed to stay until my case is concluded without being forced to take the Assimilation Oath.” “Then you will go as Sir Ferdinand Montella?” “No; I shall retain my old pseudonym _pro tem_. We have all come to the conclusion that that will be best.” Zillah drew a deep breath. “Then my scheme is practicable,” she said, with clasped hands. “I too cannot enter the country in my own name; but disguised and under an alias—it is my only chance. Sir Ferdinand, will you take me with you? It will only be for the journey; at Charing Cross Station we can part. Once in England, I have friends to whom I can go.”