After this the Jewish borderland of Bohemia, where writers and painters are courted, began to see Barstein again. But, unfortunately, this was not Mabel's circle, and Barstein was reduced to getting himself invited to that Jewish Bayswater, his loathing for which had not been overcome even by his new-found nationalism. Here, amid hundreds of talking and dancing shadows, with which some shadowy self of his own danced and talked, he occasionally had a magic hour of reality--with Mabel. One could not be real and not talk of the national dream. Mabel, who took most of her opinions from her brother Julius, was frankly puzzled, though her marmoreal gift of beautiful silence saved her lover from premature shocks. She had, indeed, scarcely heard of such things. Zionism was something in the East End. Nobody in her class ever mentioned it. But, then, Barstein was a sculptor and strange, and, besides, he did not look at all like a Jew, so it didn't sound so horrible in his mouth. His lithe figure stood out almost Anglo-Saxon amid the crowds of hulking undersized young men, and though his manners were not so good as a Christian's--she never forgot his blunder at her father's dinner-party--still, he looked up to one with almost a Christian's adoration, instead of sizing one up with an Oriental's calculation. These other London Jews thought her provincial, she knew, whereas Barstein had one day informed her she was universal. Julius, too, had admired Barstein's sculpture, the modern note in which had been hailed by the Oxford elect. But what most fascinated Mabel was the constant eulogy of her lover's work in the Christian papers; and when at last the formal proposal came, it found her fearful only of her father's disapproval. 'He's so orthodox,' she murmured, as they sat in a rose-garlanded niche at a great Jewish Charity Ball, lapped around by waltz-music and the sweetness of love confessed. 'Well, I'm not so wicked as I was,' he smiled. 'But you smoke on the Sabbath, Leo--you told me.' 'And you told me your brother Julius does the same.' 'Yes, but father doesn't know. If Julius wants to smoke on Friday evening, he always goes to his own room.' 'And I shan't smoke in your father's.' 'No--but you'll tell him. You're so outspoken.' 'Well, I won't tell him--unless he asks me.' She looked sad. 'He won't ask you--he'll never get as far.' He smiled confidently. 'You're not very encouraging, dear; what's the matter with me?' 'Everything. You're an artist, with all sorts of queer notions. And you're not so'--she blushed and hesitated--'not so rich----' He pressed her fingers. 'Yes, I am; I'm the richest man here.' A little delighted laugh broke from her lips, though they went on: 'But you told me your profits are small--marble is so dear.' 'So is celibacy. I shall economize dreadfully by marrying.'