Haifa, the most modern city in Palestine, lay at the southern point of the Bay of Acre, about fifty miles north of Jaffa. Situated amid palm-trees, it retained its Eastern character whilst bearing witness to the innovations of the West. During the two years which had elapsed since the English Edict of Expulsion, the great army of Jewish artisans had laboured well. Rows upon rows of white bungalows had sprung up almost, as it seemed, in a night; and although they could not boast of the substantiality of their construction, they could be improved by degrees. The greater part of the population consisted of British refugees, who, linked together by the same home ties, concentrated themselves as much as possible in one quarter, leaving their brethren of other nationalities to settle in different parts of the country. Therefore, although it was an accepted rule that Hebrew was to be learnt and spoken, they instinctively clung to their native tongue. They were very aristocratic, these exiled English Jews. Like many English people who travel abroad, they considered themselves vastly superior to all the foreigners with whom they came into contact. They looked down on their poor Polish and Roumanian brethren, who in their turn considered the English as irreligious moderns, scarcely worthy of the name of Jews. The brotherly feeling of equality which their leaders endeavoured to instil within them was as yet entirely lacking. Although of identical race and religion, and gathered together under one banner, the distinctions of class and nationality held them aloof. It was the eve of Purim, the Feast of Lots. By decree of the council, a public holiday had been proclaimed; for it was intended that this day should annually be observed, and that the rejoicings should be akin to the nature of a carnival. It was not until dusk, however, that the festivities began. The day had been unusually hot, even for Syria, and the majority of the inhabitants had chosen to spend the holiday indoors. At sunset came the breeze, and the heat of the day was replaced by a refreshing and welcome coolness. No matter how hot the day in Haifa, the nights were always cool. In a sequestered corner of a city roof-garden were Lionel Montella and his wife. Above them the moon shone with dazzling splendour, making the numberless hills stand out as sentinels on guard, and causing the waters of the bay to sparkle like myriads of jewels. Patricia reclined against the cushions of her chair, and inhaled the fragrance of the breeze with keen enjoyment. She found the Syrian climate so trying that she was thankful for every breath of air.