Raie gave the cushions on her wicker chair an unnecessary thump.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she returned coldly. “Lady Patricia has been obliged to sacrifice her home and happiness for the sake of her religion. It all seems very quixotic, very unnecessary; but—there it is!”
“Fiddlesticks! Who, in these enlightened days, sacrifices anything for religion? Neither Christians nor Jews; we are all materialists. What we can see and understand we believe—for the rest, it is all in the clouds; let it remain there! No, my dear, you will never get me to believe that. Patricia has evidently been sighing for the fleshpots of Egypt, otherwise the social amenities of English life. She is well-born, beautiful in her way, and has had the entrée to the most exclusive circles of society. Her ladyship felt cramped and bored in this insanitary hole of a place, and surrounded by Jews—always Jews. She longed to get back to her own sphere, to entertain in the parental mansion in Grosvenor Square, to drive in the park, to shop in Regent Street, to feel civilised once more. The desire was perfectly natural; I can even sympathise with her. But religion—no! This is not the age of martyrdom.”
“All the same, you are wrong—quite wrong,” returned Raie, with heat. “Patricia was devoted to her husband and her baby. Do you think she would have given them up for all the Londons in the world? You may be a materialist, but she is an idealist, and with her spiritual things are of vital importance. You do not understand her, but I do; and I am certain that away from her husband she will not go near society or take any part in the London season. She will probably bury herself in Thorpe Burstall for the remainder of her life. I am certain she would never have left Lionel of her own accord; but she was obliged to speak the truth, and the Chief Rabbi sent her away.”
Miss Lorm shrugged her shoulders, still unconvinced, but did not trouble to argue the matter further, and at that moment a masculine figure appeared in the doorway. Possessing fine features, and presumably English, Zillah wondered where he could have come from. Raie had walked to the other end of the garden, and was standing beneath a shady palm.
The stranger advanced with hesitation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, doffing his white cap. “They told me I should find Miss Emanuel here. I am sorry—”
Zillah favoured him with a quick scrutiny, and decided that he was the handsomest man she had yet met in Palestine.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered readily. “Miss Emanuel is here. If you will sit down I will call her.” And making room for him beside her on the settle, she let her musical voice enunciate the name—“Raie!”
Raie turned quickly and came towards them, her simple garden-hat pushed carelessly back, and allowing the dark curls to escape their usual bonds. At sight of the visitor a warm colour leapt into her cheeks, and her eyes unconsciously brightened; but she suppressed the words which rose to her lips, and formally held out her hand.