“You and I have managed to drift quite apart, but I am your father and must think for you. What are you going to do, when I am gone, if you don’t get some good man to take care of you?” She looked at him rather pityingly. It was such a futile question. Her undeveloped sympathies saw only its ludicrous, not its pathetic side. “Oh, I shall marry some day,” she said, lightly. “You need have no fear of that.” “Ay. But whom?” She shrugged her shoulders and tapped her toe on the carpet with a shade of irritation. It was ridiculous to stand there like a tableau vivant, holding her father’s hand. “Think of Simeon Goldberg, a good friend, a man not so careless in observance of the Law as we--but still of the Reformed faith--and worth”--his voice grew unconsciously reverential--“five hundred thousand pounds, if he’s worth a penny.” The girl’s eyes flashed for a second, then grew again contemptuous. “It’s an absolute impossibility. You must let this drop, papa. We don’t live in the Middle Ages when you could put me on bread and water and lock me up until I consented; or in patriarchal times, when you could curse me for disobeying you--so why discuss the matter further? I shall marry in my own good time. I am not the sort that old maids are made of.” He released her hand and turned towards the table. “Very well,” he said, taking up a pen, “I will not force you. But remember that your choice among our people is limited.” “I might choose outside them,” she said, pausing in her lazy walk towards the door. Israel Hart started round in the chair and bent his brows upon her. She tried saucily to meet his eyes, but hers sank abashed. “My daughter,” he said, sternly. “Let me never hear you say such a thing again, even in jest. Remember you are a Jewess.” She stood for a moment or two twitching her fingers, longing to retort. But she did not dare. It was only when she found herself outside his door that she gave vent to the passionate outburst: “Would to God the accursed race had perished with the other ten tribes!” She went upstairs to her bedroom with anger and foreboding at her heart, and put on hat and jacket, casting mere mechanical glances at the mirror, for the sake of adjustment. Six months before, her dressing to meet Hugh had been a matter of sweet and import and coquetry. She looked, however, very pretty in her dark-blue costume, with dainty ruffle at her throat when she met him three-quarters of an hour later in Kensington Gardens. He was walking moodily up and down the broad walk, near their appointed meeting place; but when he caught sight of her he quickened his step. “I am sorry I’m late,” she said, with some petulance; “but when you will make me take these long journeys----” “It is not my fault, dear,” he said, casually. “I told you I was lunching at Lancaster Gate and was going to put in a call near by before dinner. It was my only hour.”