Montella nodded. “You are a sensible man, doctor,” he said, with enthusiasm. “But what do you advise?”
“I hardly know. The bulk of the people in Palestine are with Ben Yetzel to a man. It is only the few emancipated, deep-thinking men like ourselves who have any thought of rebellion. For the present we must just watch and wait to see how things go. You will see Ben Yetzel, of course, while you are here?”
“My people in Haifa expect it of me. I suppose I must.”
“Then be careful what you say to him. He is an adept at catching one in one’s words. He loves to condemn people out of their own mouths; it is a form of amusement in which he delights.”
“You may rely on me to be discreet,” returned Montella, with a smile. “I can be as stolid as the Sphinx when I please.”
They parted for the night, and the young man went to his room with a light step. To his surprise he found Patricia still half dressed, her willowy figure enveloped in a loose silken wrapper. Sitting with her elbows resting on the ledge of the open casement, she looked like some frail sprite in the light of the moon. Montella went up to her, and tenderly touched the loosened tendrils of her hair.
“I thought you were in bed long ago, sweet,” he said.
She turned towards him with an affectionate gesture. “I have been talking to Anne,” was her reply. “It is just a month since her grandchild died. She seemed very much upset about it, poor woman, and I think it has done her good to tell me. I have been trying to console her.”
“At the expense of your beauty sleep?”
“I do not feel inclined for sleep; I am not so tired as I was an hour ago.”