Herr Spineder had no objections as he watched the development of this love. Leo Strakosch was an etcher, quite extraordinarily successful in spite of his youth; people were beginning to fight over his pictures, and a Leo Strakosch Album, which had appeared about a year before, was even being noticed abroad. Both the Hofrat and his wife rightly admitted to themselves that they could put their child in no better hands than Leo’s, whom they gradually came to love as their own son. The fact that Leo was a Jew did not in the least perturb Herr Spineder. His house was a rendezvous for many musicians, authors and painters, the majority of whom were Jews; and the late attorney Viktor Rosen had even been Spineder’s closest friend. A year before, when political circles were just beginning to whisper about the plan of the Christian-Socialist leader to put through an anti-Jewish law, Herr Spineder was unwilling and unable to believe that such a thing could be done. And when events forced him to believe it his indignation knew no bounds. Greater still was his sorrow over the blow that Leo’s imminent expulsion would be for his daughter. But he rejected unconditionally the thought of permitting his Lotte to join Leo in his exile; for here his love for his only child and the egoism of age united to make him absolutely inflexible. Christmas presents were plentiful; Lotte’s parents had been generous, yet she scarcely glanced at the fur scarf, silk stockings, books, and music, but constantly pressed to her trembling lips the little picture of Leo, encased in a gold locket, which he had given her. Now they were all seated about the holiday table, but the mood was mournful rather than festive, and Herr Spineder’s efforts to carry on a light conversation met with failure. When the home-made golden wine was poured out, Herr Spineder raised his glass and said, with deep feeling: