Her chaperon frowned.
“You ought not to joke on this subject, Patricia,” she rejoined. “Your words confirm my opinion: you do not realise the gravity of the step you intend to take.”
“Yes, I do—to its fullest extent. That is why I have allowed Mr. Montella to give me an engagement ring.”
“Do you mean to say that you really have anything in common with those people—the people we have just left?” Mrs. Lowther asked, still unconvinced, “Cannot you see that they live in a world of their own, cemented by their religious and national customs? You may attempt to enter that world, but you must for ever remain an outsider. Even if you marry a Jew, you are not, and never can be, a Jewess. There is no strain of Oriental blood in you.”
“Do not be so sure. I believe if I choose to look up the family tree I shall be able to discover some remote Hebrew ancestor. But that is nothing. Lionel is quite as British as I am. The Torrens were originally French.”
“What shall you do?” pursued her chaperon, unwilling to leave the subject. “Become a Jewish proselyte, or turn Mr. Montella into a Christian?”
“I do not see the necessity for either,” Patricia rejoined, with a slight flush; “but one thing is certain. Situated as he is, Lionel cannot possibly forsake the faith of his forefathers. Were he to do so, the whole fabric of his Jewish inheritance would be shattered.”
“Then I suppose that if you were to find it necessary, you would become a pervert rather than he?”
“I cannot answer that at the moment. But why discuss the matter until we are obliged to consider it?”
“Why should we shirk it simply because it is disagreeable? It is one that will have to be faced as soon as you take any definite steps towards marriage.”