“Do you think I shall have any difficulty in getting her consent to our engagement?” asked Salmon, somewhat anxiously. “You must remember that I don’t know a bit what sort of girl she is, and I haven’t even seen her yet.”
For answer, Mrs. Friedberg walked over to a console-table and lifted up a framed photograph. “There she is,” she said, handing it to her visitor. “She is a lovely girl, as you can see, and she will be a still more lovely woman. She has a good voice too—I believe she will make her mark in a few years’ time. You will have to mind your p’s and q’s, David, I am sure of that. Celia is not an ordinary girl, by any means, and she has curious ideas about some things. She seems to have been mixed up with a regular English churchy set of people in Durlston; you would scarcely take her for a Jewess.”
“Does she play solo whist?” he asked, as if that were a test.
“Not she. When we sit down to our game, she goes up to her own room and plays the piano, or moons about with a book of poetry. Do you know any poetry, Dave? If not, you had better learn a few yards.”
The young man made a grimace. He was not fond of poetry.
“Is she that kind of girl?” he said.
Mrs. Friedberg laughed. “I don’t know what ‘that kind of girl’ is like,” she answered. “But she is at home. You can come up and see her for yourself.”
She led the way upstairs, and David Salmon, with some curiosity, followed. The house was unusually quiet, for the boys and Dinah were at school. On the fourth landing she paused, out of breath.
“It’s like climbing up to heaven, isn’t it, Dave?” she panted. “I gave Celia a room up here, because the children make such a noise downstairs. She has her friend, Miss Wilton, with her; they study their music together. I hope they won’t mind being disturbed.”
She tapped lightly at the door facing the stairs, and, receiving no answer, opened it, and stood on the threshold. The two girls were kneeling at a low table at the far side of the room. Their fair heads were bent close together, and they appeared to be absorbed.