“No?” Truda spoke lightly of design.  “But you are the Governor, are you not?  You are aloof, far above thrills.  Why, it was only last night, while I was driving home, that I found a dead woman in the street.”

“I know,” he said.  “And a live baby; I heard all about it.  If you had been an hour later they would have been cleaned away.  I am sorry if you were shocked.”

“Shocked?” repeated Truda.  “I was not thinking of that.”  She shivered a little, and gathered her big cloak more closely about her.  “But I had not heard—­I did not know—­what the Judenhetze really was.  And I think the world does not know, or it would not tolerate it.”

“Eh?” The prince stared at her.  “But it has upset you,” he said soothingly.  “You must forget it.  It is not well to dwell on these things.”

The big mirror against the wall, bright with lights, reflected the pair of them sitting face to face in the attitude of intimacy.  The Prince, bearded and big, felt protective and paternal, for Truda, muffled in her great cloak, looked very small and feminine just then.

His tone, so consoling and smooth, roused her; she sat up.

“Prince,” she said, “you could stop it.”

“The Judenhetze, you mean?” He made a gesture of resignation.  “You are wrong, dear lady.  I can do nothing.  It does not rest with me.”

“You mean, there are higher powers who are responsible?” she demanded.

“We will not talk politics,” suggested the Prince.  “But roughly that is what I mean.”

She scanned him seriously.  “Yes,” she said; “I thought that was so.  And you can do nothing?  I see.”

“But why,” asked the Prince—­“why let yourself be troubled, dear lady?  This is a pitiful business, no doubt; it has thrust itself on you by an accident; you are moved and disturbed.  But, after all, the Jews are not our friends.”

The courage to deal forthrightly was not lacking to her.  As she sat up again, the fur cloak slipped, and her bare shoulders gleamed above it.  Her face was grave with the gravity of a serious child.

“I am a Jewess,” she said.

“Eh?  What?” The Prince smiled uncertainly.

“I am a Jewess,” repeated Truda.  “The Jews are my friends.  And if you can do nothing, there is something I can do.”

He smiled still, but now there was amusement in his smile.  He was not at all disconcerted.

“Do you know,” he said, “I had almost guessed it?  There is something in you—­I noticed it again to-night, in your great scene—­that suggests it.  A sort of ardor, a glow, as it were; something burning and poignant.  Well, if all the Jews were like you there would be no Judenhetze.”

She put the futile compliment from her with a movement of impatience.

“You can still do nothing?” she asked

“My powers are where they were, Madame,” he answered.

“Then,” she said slowly, “it rests with me.”  She gathered her cloak about her again.  “I am tired, as you see,” she said wearily—­“tired and a little strained.  I will beg you to excuse me.”