"Guess whom I've brought thee?" "Benedict!" She flew down, a vision of loveliness and shimmering silk and white pearls. Spinoza's hand trembled in hers that gleamed snowily from the ruffled half-sleeve; the soft warmth burnt away philosophy. They exchanged the commonplaces of the situation. "But where is Kerkkrinck?" said the doctor. "At his toilette." She exchanged a half-smile with Spinoza, who thrilled deliciously. "Then I'll go make mine," cried her father. "We sup in half an hour, Benedict. Thou'lt stay, we go to-morrow. 'Tis the last supper." And, laughing as if he had achieved a blasphemy, and unconscious of the shadow of doom, the gay old freethinker disappeared. As Klaartje spoke of his book with sparkling eyes, and discussed points in a low, musical voice, something crude and elemental flamed in the philosopher, something called to him to fuse himself with the universal life more tangibly than through the intellect. His doubts and vacillations fled: he must speak now, or the hour and the mood would never recur. If he could only drag the conversation from the philosophical. By a side door it escaped of itself into the personal; her father did not care to take her with him to Paris, spoke of possible dangers, and hinted it was time she was off his hands. There seemed a confession trembling in her laughing eye. It gave him courage to seize her fingers, to falter a request that she would come to _him_--to Heidelberg! The brightness died suddenly out of her face: it looked drawn and white. After a palpitating silence she said, "But thou art a Jew!" He was taken aback, he let her fingers drop. From his parched throat came the words, "But thou art--no Christian." "I know--but nevertheless--oh, I never dreamed of anything of this with thee--'twas all of the brain, the soul." "Soul and body are but one fact." "Women are not philosophers. I--" She stopped. Her fingers played nervously with the pearl necklace that rose and fell on her bosom. He found himself noting its details, wondering that she had developed such extravagant tastes. Then, awaking to her distress, he said quietly, "Then there is no hope for me?" Her face retained its look of pain. "Not ever? You could never--?" His cough shook him. "If there had been no other," she murmured, and her eyes drooped half-apologetically towards the necklace. The bitterness of death was in his soul. He had a sudden ironic sense of a gap in his mathematical philosophy. He had fathomed the secret of Being, had analyzed and unified all things from everlasting to everlasting, yet here was an isolated force--a woman's will--that stood obstinately between him and happiness. He seemed to visualize it, behind her serious face, perversely mocking.