had feared to
commit their fates to a letter, whether from herself or her lover. A
plump negative would be so difficult to fight against. A personal
interview permitted one to sound the ground, to break the thing
delicately, to reason, to explain, to charm away objections. It was
clearly the man's duty to face the music.

Not that Barstein expected anything but the music of the Wedding
March. He was glad that his original contempt for Sir Asher had been
exchanged for sincere respect, and that the bluff Briton was a mere
veneer. It was to the Palestinian patriarch that he would pour out his
hopes and his dreams.

Alas! he found only the bluff Briton, and a Briton no longer genially,
but bluntly, bluff.

'It is perfectly impossible.'

Barstein, bewildered, pleaded for enlightenment. Was he not pious
enough, or not rich enough, too artistic or too low-born? Or did Sir
Asher consider his past life improper or his future behaviour dubious?
Let Sir Asher say.

But Sir Asher would not say. 'I am not bound to give my reasons. We
are all proud of your work--it confers honour on our community. The
Mayor alluded to it only yesterday.' He spoke in his best platform
manner. 'But to receive you into my family--that is another matter.'

And all the talk advanced things no further.

'It would be an entirely unsuitable match.' Sir Asher caressed his
long beard with an air of finality.

With a lover's impatience, Barstein had made the mistake of seeking
Sir Asher in his counting-house, where the municipal magnate sat among
his solidities. The mahogany furniture, the iron safes, the ledgers,
the silent obsequious clerks and attendants through whom Barstein had
had to penetrate, the factory buildings stretching around, with their
sense of throbbing machinery and disciplined workers, all gave the
burly Briton a background against which visions and emotions seemed as
unreal as ghosts under gaslight. The artist felt all this solid life
closing round him like the walls of a torture-chamber, squeezing out
his confidence, his aspirations, his very life.

'Then you prefer to break your daughter's heart!' he cried
desperately.

'Break my daughter's heart!' echoed Sir Asher in amaze. It was
apparently a new aspect to him.

'You don't suppose she won't suffer dreadfully?' Barstein went on,
perceiving his advantage.

'Break her heart!' repeated Sir Asher, startled out of his discreet
reticence. 'I'd sooner break her heart than see he