She sat down in front of the blazing log-fire, and watched him from the depths of a heavy arm-chair. He looked almost handsome that night, in spite of the lines on his forehead, and seemed to have regained a little of his former sprightliness. Yet, recollecting his visit to her father on the day of her marriage, she recognised a great difference. She remembered how his short, thick-set figure had bristled with indignation, and how the steely grey eyes had gleamed. She remembered his gestures—sharp, stern, commanding, just as the political caricaturists had pictured him in their cartoons—but there was little of that fiery alertness in his bearing now. He looked like a man who had in some peculiar way lost all verve: the features, the form, and the voice remained, but the animation which had given life to the whole personality was gone. Abruptly finishing his superfluous dissertation, he took up his position on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and gazed moodily down at the parquet floor. Then glancing up suddenly his eye caught Patricia’s, and his face lit up with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “I want to ask you something,” he said, leaning his arm against the oaken mantel-shelf. “In reviewing the events of the last three weeks, it has struck me as curious that you, of all persons, should have nursed my little girl, since neither she nor I had the slightest claim on you. Tell me, Lady Patricia, and do not be offended at my question—why did you do it?” “Why?” She hesitated. “Oh, because I thought it was a case in which I could assist. I am always ready to help _anyone_ in trouble, if I can.” “I see. You did it for charity’s sake. If it had been my lodge-keeper’s child you would have nursed her with equal willingness and care?” “Certainly.” “Ah!” His exclamation was sharp and gruff. “Then you did not do it as a personal favour to me?” “No.” She met his gaze steadily. “I did not do it for you.” There was an uncomfortable pause. He turned round and gave the fire a vigorous poke, which sent the flames roaring up the chimney. The light caught the diamond star at her breast, and set it scintillating with prismatic rays. Then with his eyes almost involuntarily set on the jewel, he addressed her again. “It is as well to know the truth,” he said, with feigned nonchalance. “Otherwise I might have flattered myself that you nursed Phyllis for my sake. I suppose, in reality, you consider me more of an enemy than a friend?” “I think I have reason to do so,” she returned, with a sigh. “On account of the Jewish question?” he asked slowly. “Yes.” “I am sorry.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “But you see it is not my fault that you happened to marry a Jew. You know I have no love for that race.” “I do know, to my sorrow,” she answered quietly. “But I cannot understand it at all. Mr. Moore, why are you an anti-Semite?”