“On the contrary, I’m very pleased and proud to call you a friend of mine. You wouldn’t have had my money otherwise.”
“Then, Mr. Hart, you make easier what I have to say. It concerns your daughter, Miss Hart.”
“What? Minna—my daughter?” said the old man, with a sharp change of tone.
“I have the honour to ask you for her hand in marriage.”
“You!”
An indescribable change came over the old man’s face. Instantly it lost the sleek and coarse materialism of the money-getter, the half-sensual content of the easy-going man who has well dined, the patronising geniality of the prosperous host. A fire glowed in his eyes. His Jewish features seemed to grow more prominent. The grey beard framed a strange, patriarchal dignity. The Jew, proud and unconquered through centuries of oppression, overwhelming all other accidents of life in the eternal arrogance of race, was regarding, with angry and incredulous scorn, the Gentile, the hybrid child of yesterday.
“You!” he repeated, almost insultingly.
The young man’s quick blood flamed in his cheeks. He started to his feet.
“Yes, I. Why shouldn’t I?” he cried in a loud voice.
At that moment the door opened, and the butler entered, bearing a tray with spirit-case and glasses. Hugh turned quickly, and bent towards the fire with a spill, to light a cigarette. The butler set his trayload on the great library table, secured the windows of the room and drew the curtains, which had remained looped back.