"There is nothing to employ a surfeited mind in this city."
"No?" he said lightly, while interest began to awaken in his eyes. "The making of enjoyment is here. I have found it so."
"Perchance you have," but she halted and resumed her moody gaze at the flood of sunlight.
"Are you weary?" he asked. "What is it?"
"Idleness! Eating, sleeping–no; not even that; for idleness steals away my appetite and my repose."
"Strange restiveness for one reared in the quiet inner chambers of a Jewish house," he observed.
Her eyes dropped away to the floor; he saw that she was breathing quickly.
"I dreamed of a free life once," she said in a restrained way. "I have not since been satisfied. I dreamed of cities and kings, that were mine! of crises that I dared, of–of things that I did!"
There was indignation and pride in the words, too much recollection of an actuality to rise from the reminiscences of a dream. John watched her alertly.
"Enough will happen here in time to divert you," he said.