Celia had no qualms now about staying in a non-Jewish house, and of partaking of food not prepared according to Jewish law. She had apparently left her Judaism where she had found it—in Maida Vale. Had she been truly convinced of the faithfulness of its tenets she would no doubt have adhered to it with untiring zeal, but she had found much that was unsatisfactory and inconsistent in its multitudinous laws and regulations; and when there was no longer any incentive for her to keep it up, she gradually let it slide. In Paris her religious observances had been allowed to fall into laxity, until at last she ceased to observe anything at all. Instead, she adopted the art religion of her brother—the worship of God as seen in the Beautiful alone; and if it were not so satisfying as true Judaism might have been had she been able to discover of what true Judaism really consists, at least it entailed no inconvenient obligations, and, in its vague indefiniteness, was an easy creed to follow.
There was one person to whom Celia’s present mode of living gave ample cause for dissatisfaction, and that was her fiancé, David Salmon. He had been engaged to her for over three years now, and considered it high time for the marriage to take place. He had scarcely seen her more than a dozen times since she had returned from Paris, for her engagements were so numerous that he seemed crowded out. He was at present employed as manager in one of the departments of the Acme Furnishing Company, of which Mike Rosen was the proprietor. It was a fairly remunerative post, but David rebelled against having to plod on at business every day from nine o’clock until six, when, as Celia’s husband, he might assume the habits of a gentleman of means and leisure.
Besides, he did not feel secure of her now that she had launched forth into smart society—in which he himself had no place. Lady Marjorie had given him an invitation to come and see her at Great Cumberland Place. He went occasionally, but he never seemed to be able to make himself at home there. From the moment the powdered footman opened the great hall door, he felt a sense of constraint creeping over him like a vice; and it never relaxed until his visit came to an end. Surrounded by the grandeur of Lady Marjorie’s establishment, hedged in by the rules of social etiquette, Celia seemed a different being to the frankly ingenuous girl he had known at Mrs. Friedberg’s house. She had, unconsciously perhaps, imbibed something of the ultra high-bred manner of the grande dame. She was very dignified, very graceful, very charming, but she made him feel, in some indefinable way, that she was moving in a different sphere to his own: he liked her better as she had been before.
One day, as he was strolling down Oxford Street in his luncheon hour, a neat victoria drove past him, just as he was about to cross the road. A sudden instinct made him pause and look up, and with mixed feelings he recognized the two occupants—Celia and Lord Bexley. It was the first time he had encountered them together in this way, and a feeling of annoyance took possession of him as he watched them. Celia was chatting with evident enjoyment, her face lit up with animation. When she caught sight of her fiancé she bowed, and favoured him with the shadow of a smile, but apparently did not deem it necessary to stop the carriage in order to speak to him.
David strode on with resentment, whilst the first pangs of jealousy awakened in his breast. In a thoroughly bad temper he sauntered over to his customary restaurant, and, having given vent to his feelings by swearing at the waiter’s dilatoriness, took up a paper to beguile the time. It happened to be a popular journal descriptive of the doings of society, and the first thing he opened it at was an account of church parade in Hyde Park on the previous Sunday.
He did not trouble to read the list of social celebrities who had been there, but two familiar names caught his eye—
“ ... Miss Celia Franks, accompanied by her favourite Yorkshire terrier, and looking delightfully fresh and cool in a gown of white mousseline de soie, sat under the trees on the ‘quiet side,’ talking to Lord Bexley....”
“That reads all right,” he said to himself. “But I’ll take jolly good care that I’m there next Sunday. I wonder if they will put ‘talking to her intended husband, Mr. David Salmon’?”
He turned over the pages. A description of Lady de Smythe’s ball next claimed his attention—
“ ... Lady Marjorie Stonor, gowned in ivory satin covered with old lace, and wearing a magnificent diamond pendant, brought Miss Celia Franks, the gifted singer, who afterwards joined in the cotillion, with Lord Bexley as her partner....”