now came an enchanting season of confidences; the mother, caught up in the glow of this strange love, learning to see the girl through the boy's eyes, though the only aid to his eloquence was the photograph of a plump little blonde with bewitching dimples. the time was not ripe yet for bringing lucy and her together, he explained. in fact, he hadn't actually proposed. his mother understood he was waiting for the year of mourning to be up.

'but how will you be married?' she once asked.

'oh, there's the registrar,' he said carelessly.

'but can't you make her a proselyte?' she ventured timidly.

he coloured. 'it would be absurd to suddenly start talking religion to her.'

'but she knows you're a jew.'

'oh, i dare say. i never hid it from her brother, so why shouldn't she know? but her father's a bit of a crank, so i rather avoid the subject.'

'a crank? about jews?'

'well, old winstay has got it into his noddle that the jews are responsible for the war—and that they leave the fighting to the english. it's rather sickening: even in south africa we are not treated as we should be, considering——'

her dark eye lost its pathetic humility. 'but how can he say that, when you yourself—when you saved his——'

'well, i suppose just because he knows i was fighting, he doesn't think of me as a jew. it's a bit [80]illogical, i know.' and he smiled ruefully. 'but, then, logic is not the old boy's strong point.'

'he seemed such a nice old man,' said mrs. cohn, as she recalled the photograph of the white-haired cherub writing with a quill at a property desk.

'oh, off his hobby-horse he's a dear old boy. that's why i don't help him into the saddle.'

'but how can he be ignorant that we've sent seven hundred at least to the war?' she persisted. 'why, the paper had all their photographs!'

'what paper?' said simon, laughing. 'do you suppose he reads the jewish what's-a-name, like you? why, he's never heard of it!'

'then you ought to show him a copy.'

'oh, mother!' and he laughed again. 'that would only prove to him there are too many jews everywhere.'

a cloud began to spread over mrs. cohn's hard-won content. but apparently it only shadowed her own horizon. simon was as happily full of his lucy as ever.

nevertheless, there came a sunday evening when simon returned from harrow earlier than his wont, and hannah's dog-like eye noted that the cloud had at last reached his brow.

'you have had a quarrel?' she cried.

'only with the old boy.'

'but what about?'

'the old driveller has just joined some league of londoners for the suppression of the immigrant alien.'

'but you should have told him we all agree there should be decentralization,' said mrs. cohn, quoting her favourite jewish organ.

[81]'it isn't that—it's the old fellow's vanity that's hurt. you see, he composed the "appeal to the briton," and gloated over it so conceitedly that i couldn't help pointing out the horrible contradictions.'

'but lucy——' his mother began anxiously.

'lucy's a brick. i don't know what my life would have been without the little darling. but listen, mother.' and he drew out a portentous prospectus. 'they say aliens should not be admitted unless they produce a certificate of industrial capacity, and in the same breath they accuse them of taking the work away from the british workman. now this isn't a jewish question, and i didn't raise it as such—just a piece of muddle—and even as an englishman i can't see how we can exclude outlanders here after fighting for the outland——'

'but lucy——' his mother interrupted.

his vehement self-assertion passed into an affectionate smile.

'lucy was dimpling all over her face. she knows the old boy's vanity. of course she couldn't side with me openly.'

'but what will happen? will you go there again?'

the cloud returned to his brow. 'oh, well, we'll see.'

a letter from lucy saved him the trouble of deciding the point.

'dear silly old sim,' it ran,

'father has been going on dreadfully, so you had better wait a few sundays till he has cooled down. after all, you yourself admit there is a grievance of congestion and high rents in the east end. and it is [82]only natural—isn't it?—that after shedding our blood and treasure for the empire we should not be in a mood to see our country overrun by dirty aliens.'

'dirty!' muttered simon, as he read. 'has she seen the christian slums—flower and dean street?' and his handsome oriental brow grew duskier with anger. it did not clear till he came to:

'let us meet at the crystal palace next saturday, dear quarrelsome person. three o'clock, in the pompeian room. i have got an aunt at sydenham, and i can go in to tea after the concert and hear all about the missionary work in the south sea islands.'