“I think nothing yet, my dear Montella. I prefer to wait for the course of events. For the present I must say _Auf Wiedersehen_. I shall see you again before I leave London, I hope.” He rose, and politely declining Lady Montella’s cordial invitation to dinner, took his departure; but they saw him again at a huge Zionist meeting on the following night. The hall was packed from door to door, rich and poor uniting for once under the sense of common danger. Like a drowning man catches at a straw, they clung to the new hope which was presented to them; for with anti-Semitism brought so near home, they could no longer afford to ignore the burning question. And what a hope it was that, clothed though it was in foreign accents, breathed through Engelmacher’s words! A land of their very own, where persecution would be forgotten, where they could lift their heads in freedom, and win back their good name. The promised land of their forefathers and of their glorious past—the promised land of the future, where they should behold the long-looked-for coming of the King! No wonder that their stricken hearts were inflamed by the national hope. The voices of the prophets—to which for so long they had turned deaf ears—were reaching them at last. Who could tell what new revelations they might not have to unfold? CHAPTER X PREMIER AND PEERESS The new Grand Imperial Hotel at Brighton was very full; for it had become the fashion once again to spend the week-end away from town, and the Grand Imperial was the hotel temporarily favoured, not so much by the so-called “smart set” as by those who were popularly supposed to possess brains. Jaded barristers, glad to forget for the moment that there existed such a place as the Inner Temple, a trio of actor-managers who were “resting”; two or three of the most beautiful women in society, and a sprinkling of clerics were included among the guests. To-night—Saturday—the Right Hon. Athelstan Moore was expected, and the hotel complement would be complete. It was the hour between tea and dinner—the children’s hour. Those who were not imbibing the salubrious air along the promenade were gathered in the lounge, whilst the children—there were not many—played hide-and-seek around the Corinthian pillars and behind the numerous Chesterfield couches. One of them, a tiny boy of scarcely five summers, was playing horses with a little girl three years his senior, and racing up and down as fast as his little legs would carry him, seemed bubbling over with health and merriment. “You go too slow, Phyllis,” he piped, almost out of breath with his mimic galloping and plunging. “Why don’t you run?” Phyllis Moore loosened the reins. “If I run I shall make myself tired,” she replied demurely. “My governess told me to play quietly. I am going to wait up for father to-night.” The air of maiden superiority jarred upon the little boy.