Celia, leaving her seat after the ceremony was over, mingled with the wedding-party, and joined in the general buzz of congratulation. Mrs. Friedberg, all smiles, with a conspicuous lace handkerchief in readiness to catch the tears of joy, kissed promiscuously all round--Celia receiving this mark of affection in the neighbourhood of the left ear. The Brookes were there, expressing their interest in the quaint Jewish ritual; and so was Mrs. Leopold Cohen--now a widow--who, despite her avowed disappointment at Celia’s secession from Judaism, greeted the girl with unaffected warmth, and invited her home to early dinner. Celia was unable to accept the invitation; but she appreciated it nevertheless, and readily promised to avail herself of it one morning in the following week. Then, having shaken hands with the Friedberg family and some of their numerous friends, she took her departure, wondering if she would have looked as happy as Dinah, had she--instead of her friend--stood beside Salmon as his bride. After lunch she went out again, this time to Kensington. She had promised Herbert to go and see Ninette, but for some unaccountable reason had hitherto shrunk from paying the visit. Now, however, her conscience pricked her for having delayed so long; so, taking some music, and a bunch of the brightest flowers obtainable, she went. Mrs. Neville Williams was feeling a little better that afternoon; and, clad in a loose wrapper, lay on the sofa in her pretty drawing-room. She was not prepared to entertain, and on account of the haggardness of her natural complexion, refused to see any one who called; but Celia Franks was an exception, and she hailed her appearance with delight. “How good of you to come,” she said effusively, inhaling the fragrant perfume of the flowers. “I thought you had a Wednesday _matinée_. No? Well, take off your things and make yourself cosy; but for heaven’s sake don’t look at me, child. I am as yellow as a guinea to-day.” Celia loosened her fur, and drew off her gloves. She could not help looking, for the woman before her seemed to her a positive wreck. She made no remark, however; and Mrs. Neville Williams plunged into a conversation, chiefly society gossip, which showed that, however ill she might be, the _joie de vivre_ was not yet extinguished within her breast. “So your brother is going to marry that little Stonor woman,” she remarked, apropos of the mention of the artist’s name. “Bexley told me the last time I saw him. I should scarcely have thought he would have chosen a milk-and-watery creature like Lady Marjorie.” “Why do you call her ‘milk-and-watery’?” said Celia reproachfully, “She is quite one of the sweetest women I know.” “Yes, of course; but that is what I complain of--she’s too sweet. She looks as if she couldn’t say ‘bo!’ to a goose. And then her clothes, my dear! Why, she actually wore the same frock two seasons in succession! Did you ever hear of such a monstrous thing?”