'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 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: