And yet, thought Mrs. Quixano, with a sudden burst of maternal pride and indignation, any man might be proud of such a wife. With her beauty, her health, and her air of breeding, surely she was good enough, and more than good enough, for such a man as Reuben Sachs, his enormous pretensions, and those of his family on his behalf notwithstanding? The door opened presently to admit two little dark-eyed, foreign-looking children--children such as Murillo loved to paint--who had just returned from a walk with a very juvenile nursemaid. They were Judith’s youngest brothers, and as she knelt on the floor with her arm round one of them, administering chocolate and burnt almonds, she was conscious of a new tenderness, of a strange yearning affection for them in her heart. “The girls will be so sorry to miss seeing you,” said Mrs. Quixano, taking in the picture before her with her shrewd glance; “they are at the High School, and Jack, of course, is in the City.” Jack Quixano, the eldest of the family, was also its chief hope and pride. He had taken to finance as a duck to water, and from the humblest of berths at Sachs and Co.’s, had risen in a few years to the proud position of authorized clerk. It had been evident, almost from the cradle, that he had inherited the true Leuniger ambition and determination to get on in the world, qualities which had shone forth so conspicuously in the case of his uncle Israel, and, unlike the ambition and determination of the Sachs family, were unrelieved by any touch of imagination or self-criticism. “It is disappointing not to see the girls,” answered Judith, who was fond of her sisters, when she remembered them. “But papa, he is at home? I shall not be disturbing him?” A moment later she was standing with her hand on the door of the room at the back of the house, where her father was accustomed to pass his time. Turning the handle, in obedience to a voice from within, she entered slowly, a suggestion of shyness and reluctance in her manner, and found herself in a tiny apartment, into which the afternoon sun was streaming. It was lined and littered with books, all of them dusty and many dilapidated. From the midst of this confusion of dust and sunlight rose a tall, lean, shabby figure: a middle-aged man, with stooping shoulders, a very dark skin, dark, straight, lank hair, growing close round the cheek-bones, deep-set eyes, and long features. “Why, Judith, my dear,” he said, with his vague, pleasant smile, as she came forward and submitted her fresh cheek to his lips. “I hope I don’t disturb you, papa. And how is the treatise getting on?” He shook his head and smiled, and Judith was content with this for an answer. She only asked after the treatise from politeness, not from any interest in the subject.