as much money at home, if he had had the courage.  Be this as it may, there the money was, and, armed with it, the young man set sail literally for England, home and beauty, resuming his cast-off gentility with several extra layers of superciliousness.  Pretty Jewesses, pranked in their prettiest clothes, hastened, metaphorically speaking, to the port to welcome the wanderer; for they knew it was from among them he would make his pick.  There were several varieties of him—­marked by financial ciphers—­but whether he married in his old station or higher up the scale, he was always faithful to the sectarian tradition of the race, and this less from religious motives than from hereditary instinct.  Like the young man in the dress-coat, he held the Christian girl to be cold of heart, and unsprightly of temperament.  He laid it down that all Yiddishe girls possessed that warmth and chic which, among Christians, were the birthright of a few actresses and music-hall artistes—­themselves, probably, Jewesses!  And on things theatrical this young man spoke as one having authority.  Perhaps, though he was scarce conscious of it, at the bottom of his repulsion was the certainty that the Christian girl could not fry fish.  She might be delightful for flirtation of all degrees, but had not been formed to make him permanently happy.  Such was the conception which Hannah had formed for herself of the young man from the Cape.  This latest specimen of the genus was prepossessing into the bargain.  There was no denying he was well built, with a shapely head and a lovely moustache.  Good looks alone were vouchers for insolence and conceit, but, backed by the aforesaid purse—!  She turned her head away and stared at the evolutions of the “Lancers” with much interest.

“They’ve got some pretty girls in that set,” he observed admiringly.  Evidently the young man did not intend to go away.

Hannah felt very annoyed.  “Yes,” she said, sharply, “which would you like?”

“I shouldn’t care to make invidious distinctions,” he replied with a little laugh.

“Odious prig!” thought Hannah.  “He actually doesn’t see I’m sitting on him!” Aloud she said, “No?  But you can’t marry them all.”

“Why should I marry any?” he asked in the same light tone, though there was a shade of surprise in it.

“Haven’t you come back to England to get a wife?  Most young men do, when they don’t have one exported to them in Africa.”

He laughed with genuine enjoyment and strove to catch the answering gleam in her eyes, but she kept them averted.  They were standing with their backs to the wall and he could only see the profile and note the graceful poise of the head upon the warm-colored neck that stood out against the white bodice.  The frank ring of his laughter mixed with the merry jingle of the fifth figure—­

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to be an exception,” he said.

“You think nobody good enough, perhaps,” she could not help saying.