Mrs. Leopold Cohen was the only one of her new acquaintance with whom Celia was on terms of intimacy. She was a very charming woman, and, although quite young, had snow-white hair and a face on which suffering had left its traces. Her husband was a confirmed and fractious invalid, being afflicted with an incurable spinal complaint which necessitated his being always in a recumbent position; and her two children were both so delicate that she was in a perpetual state of anxiety concerning their welfare. Yet, although there was so much to try her--for, besides the ill health of her dear ones, she was worried about ways and means--she possessed a calm and patient nature which was quite incapable of being ruffled by the turbulent storm of adversity. Celia had been struck by the sweetness and repose of her countenance, the more so as she had once been a witness of one of Mr. Cohen’s splenetic outbursts, and knew what the wife had to endure. “I don’t know how you can stand it, poor dear,” the girl had said to her on that occasion. “You must have the temper of a saint.” But the brave little woman shook her head; she did not wish to be pitied. “One gets used to it in time,” she had answered with a wistful smile. “And Leopold doesn’t mean all he says. He is in such pain, you know; it is no wonder that he is fretful.” On this particular afternoon, however, her husband was better than usual, and peace reigned in the little household, at least for a time. Mrs. Cohen received Celia with cordiality; and when she had attended to the numerous requirements of the invalid, they settled down to a quiet chat. “Why did you not go to the Isaacsons’ last Tuesday?” she asked her, reproachfully. “I made sure you would be there, especially as the Friedbergs and Mrs. Rosen came.” “Tuesday?” repeated Celia, thoughtfully. “Oh yes, I remember. I went to recite at an entertainment in Hoxton for Mr. Wilton. Did you enjoy yourself at the Isaacsons’?” “Fairly well; only my husband sent for me rather early, as he felt ill. I was very disappointed that you were not there, though. Mrs. Friedberg tells me that you do not care for the society of Jewish people; but I hope that is not true?” Celia looked sheepish. “Did Mrs. Friedberg tell you that?” she said, bending down to fasten her shoe. “She has just been lecturing me about being unsociable. You see, I don’t care about going to card-parties, because I don’t play cards; and even if I did, I could not play just now, because I am in mourning.” “Yes, but they don’t all play cards,” rejoined Mrs. Cohen. “I don’t, for one. And there are always plenty of young people for you to talk to. Haven’t you made any Jewish girl friends since you came to London?” “No, only one or two. Most of them seem to me to be so shallow-minded, and they talk of nothing but dress, and theatres, and the latest matrimonial engagement. By-the-bye, I suppose you have heard that Lottie Friedberg is engaged?”