“I am glad Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed,” she remarked, as she gave them to him. “She always laughs at what she calls my attempts to scale Parnassus, but I know that you won’t laugh, because you understand.” “The good lady has not a poetic soul,” he said, as he ran his eye down the page. “This stanza appears to be very promising, Lady Pat. May I take the MS. home with me to study when I am quiet and undisturbed?” She consented readily, and rolling up the sheets, he placed them carefully in his pocket. Then, closing the door, he began on the subject on which all his thoughts were set. With a glad light in his eyes, and eagerness in his voice, he told her of his love. It caused her no surprise; indeed, why should it? She had invested Lionel Montella with a poetic idealism almost from the first day of their acquaintance. She admired the race from which he sprang, and which seemed to surround him with a halo of romance: she liked to see the verve which leapt into his eyes when he spoke of the ancestors who had been so cruelly wronged. More than this, she loved the man himself; therefore his declaration seemed the most natural thing in the world. Nevertheless there was a mist in her eyes as she responded to his confession. She knew that he was not a man who was easily impressed by a woman’s personality, so that to have so greatly stirred his heart’s emotions was to have accomplished something indeed. She listened to his sweet nothings with her own heart beating in response, with her face upturned, and love’s ardour in her eyes. And so the moments sped on—moments to be remembered in eternity—until the chiming of a clock recalled them to the prosaicism of life. “Half-past ten already,” he said, rising with reluctance. “I have stayed an unconscionable time, and my mother asked me particularly to come home.” “Naughty boy!” she exclaimed playfully. “You must put the blame on me. Does Lady Montella know that—that—I mean, does she know about me?” “Not yet, dear.” His brow clouded. “But she shall know very soon.” “Do you think she will be displeased?” “Displeased!” He took her in his arms again. “My darling, who could be displeased where you are concerned?” “But I am a Christian, Lionel, and you are a Jew.” “Yes, dear; but what does that matter? Are we to be separated for life because of the difference in our birth? The sacrifice is too great—for me, at least. Does it make any difference to you that I am a Jew?” “None at all,” she rejoined impetuously, “unless it makes me love you more.” He pressed her hand.