David saw that he had better leave Lady Marjorie out of the question.
“Well, can’t you give me any idea of the date?” he said, determined not to be put off this time. “The Rosens are sure to ask us about it to-night; they always do. Such a long engagement as ours is quite exceptional amongst Jewish people. They will begin to think there is something fishy about it soon.”
Celia shrugged her shoulders; it was a regular little Jewish shrug.
“It doesn’t matter to us what they think,” she replied, as the cab drew up before a pretentious-looking red-brick house half-way up the hill. “But you can tell them that it will take place next spring, if you like. When we have consulted Herbert we shall be able to say more definitely.”
And with that David was obliged to be content; but he made up his mind to write to Herbert Karne without delay. He would not rest until the actual date was fixed.
Mrs. Rosen’s house presented quite a festive appearance. Although it was not quite dark, lights gleamed from every window, and the front door, which stood invitingly open, disclosed a profusion of plants and flowers in the hall.
Inside the porch stood Mike Rosen himself. He was in evening dress, an ample expanse of shirt-front being adorned by a large and dazzling diamond stud. When he caught sight of Celia alighting from the hansom, he came down the steps to greet her, and leaving David to settle with the perspiring Jehu, escorted her gallantly into the house.
“Well, I am pleased to see you, my dear,” he said, as a maid relieved her of her wraps. “I’ve just been reading about you in the Society Gossip. Good gracious me, the number of lords and ladies you’ve been hobnobbing with! It will be a wonder if it doesn’t make you proud. I suppose you haven’t brought an earl or a duke in your pocket now, have you? We might exhibit him behind the nursery guard, penny a view.”
Celia did what was expected of her; she laughed, then followed her host into the dining-room to have some iced coffee. There were others there for the same purpose, including Lottie Friedberg, now Mrs. Woolf; and in a high chair, playing with an indiarubber dog, sat Adeline’s son and heir, aged eighteen months. Mike adored the baby even more than his beloved “ferniture,” and had kept him up past his bedtime on purpose to show him off before his guests: to hear them praise his little son was like music to his ears.
Celia again did what was expected of her; she said he was the finest boy for his age that she had ever seen, and kissed him on the top of his head, and allowed him to play with her tiny jewelled watch. Mike’s face positively beamed with good humour. He wanted his son to exhibit his infantile accomplishments, to call the pussy, and clap hands, and various other things which he had taught him; but his wife suddenly appeared upon the scene, and commanded him to give the baby over to his nurse.