Once inside his own cosey rooms Peter bustled about, poking the fire into life, drawing the red curtains closer, moving a vase of roses so he could catch their fragrance from where he sat, wheeling two big, easy, all-embracing arm-chairs to the blaze, rolling a small table laden with various burnables and pourables within reach of their elbows, and otherwise disporting himself after the manner of the most cheery and lovable of hosts. This done, he again took up the thread of his discourse. “Yes! He's a wonderful old fellow, this Isaac Cohen,” he rattled on when the two were seated. “You had only a glimpse of that den of his, but you should see his books on costumes,--he's an authority, you know,--and his miniatures,--Oh, a Cosway, which he keeps in his safe, that is a wonder!--and his old manuscripts. Those are locked up too. And he's a gentleman, too, Jack; not once in all the years I have known him have I ever heard him mention the word money in an objectionable way, and he has plenty of it even if he does press off my coat with his own hands. Can you recall anybody you know, my boy--even in the houses where you and I have been lately, who doesn't let the word slip out in a dozen different ways before the evening is over? And best of all, he's sane,--one of the few men whom it is safe to let walk around loose.” “And you like him?” “Immensely.” “And you never remember he is a Jew?” This was one of the things Jack had never understood. “Never;--that's not his fault,--rather to his credit.” “Why?” “Because the world is against both him and his race, and yet in all the years I have known him, nothing has ever soured his temper.” Jack struck a match, relit his cigar and settling himself more comfortably in his chair, said in a positive tone: “Sour or sweet,--I don't like Jews,--never did.” “You don't like him because you don't know him. That's your fault, not his. But you would like him, let me tell you, if you could hear him talk. And now I think of it, I am determined you shall know him, and right away. Not that he cares--Cohen's friends are among the best men in London, especially the better grade of theatrical people, whose clothes he has made and whose purses he has kept full--yes--and whom he sometimes had to bury to keep them out of Potter's field; and those he knows here--his kind of people, I mean, not yours.” “All in his line of business, Uncle Peter,” Jack laughed. “How much interest did they pay,--cent per cent?” “I am ashamed of you, Jack. Not a penny. Don't let your mind get clogged up, my boy, with such prejudices,--keep the slate of your judgment sponged clean.” “But you believe everybody is clean, Uncle Peter.”