"Useless it would be. Miriam is not one of those who say 'no' and then 'yes.'"
"Nearly two years you have known her. That was long to keep you in hope and doubt. I think she is a coquette."
"You know her not, mother. Very few words of love have I dared to say. We have been friends. I was happy to stand in the store and talk to Cohen, and watch her. A glance from her eyes, a pleasant word, was enough. I feared to lose all by asking too much."
"Then, why did you ask her to-night? It would have been better had your father spoken first to Mr. Cohen."
"I did not ask Miriam to-night. She spared me all she could. She was in the store as I passed, and I went in. This is what she said to me, 'Bram, dear Bram, I fear that you begin to love me, because I think of you very often. And my grandfather has just told me that I am promised to Judah Belasco, of London. In the summer he will come here, and I shall marry him.' I wish, mother, you could have seen her leaning against the black kas; for between it and her black dress, her face was white as death, and beautiful and pitiful as an angel's."
"What said you then?"
"Oh, I scarce know! But I told her how dearly I loved her, and I asked her to be my wife."