Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl.

No sense of elation over the money had possession of him.

All his thoughts were on Isaac.
What manner of man was this Jew?
he kept asking himself in a sort of stunned surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk like a savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a child?
Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and direct; reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles--as his friend would have done--as his own father might have done.
And with the thought of Cohen's supreme instantaneous response there followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his questionings of Peter's intimacy, and his frequent comments on their acquaintance--the one thing he could never understand in his beloved mentor.

Again Isaac's words rang in his ears.

"Is it because I am a Jew?
Who taught you such nonsense?
Not your Uncle Peter--he loves me.