Everybody remembers the sad old comedy, as differently interpreted in its
graver sentiment as there are different interpreters. Ruth had seen one
who made of Shylock merely a fawning, mercenary, loveless, blood-thirsty
wretch. She had seen another who presented a man of quick wit, ready
tongue, great dignity, greater vengeance, silent of love, wordy of hate.
Booth, without throwing any romantic glamour on the Jew, showed him as God
and man, but mostly man, had made him: an old Jew, grown bitter in the
world's disfavor through fault of race; grown old in strife for the only
worldly power vouchsafed him, --gold; grown old with but one human love to
lighten his hard existence; a man who, at length, shorn of his two loves
through the same medium that robbed him of his manly birthright, now turned
fiend, endeavors with tooth and nail to wreak the smouldering vengeance of
a lifetime upon the chance representative of an inexorable persecution.

All through the performance Ruth sat a silent, attentive listener. Kemp,
with his ready laugh at Gratiano's sallies, would turn a quick look at her
for sympathy; he was rather surprised at the grave, unsmiling face beside
him. When, however, the old Jew staggered alone and almost blindly from
the triumphantly smiling court-room, a little pinch on his arm decidedly
startled him.

He lowered his glass and turned round on her so suddenly that Ruth started.

"Oh," she faltered, "I--I beg your pardon; I had forgotten you were not
Louis."

"I do not mind in the least," he assured her easily.

The last act passes merrily and quickly; only the severe, great things of