“That’s what you’ve said before,” returned the other, complainingly. “I should t’ink it’s about time it came off now. If I were you, I wouldn’t shilly-shally over it so long. I ‘spec’ there’s others waiting for their money besides me.” “That’s not your business,” said David, sharply. He was getting cross. “No, that’s not my business, but the _geld_ is, though,” retorted Apfelbaum. “And if I don’t get it soon, we’ll see what the law can do.” He turned on his heel and walked away. David marched up the Hall Road in high feather, and, when he arrived at the top, gave vent to a vigorous expletive beginning with the letter “D.” Then he felt better. CHAPTER III FITZJOHN’S AVENUE, HAMPSTEAD,--OR JERUSALEM? On the following Sunday, David Salmon called at Great Cumberland Place to take his beloved to an evening party, which Mrs. Mike Rosen was giving in her honour. Mrs. Rosen possessed a large circle of friends, and entertained with lavish hospitality, especially on the first Sunday in the month, when her house was thrown open from three o’clock until midnight for the reception of her guests. On this occasion, being an off Sunday, the guests had been specially invited “to meet my friend Miss Celia Franks,” and Celia had received a particular request to bring her music and her voice--as though she were in the habit of leaving the latter at home. The opportunity which David sought had now arrived. As the hansom bowled smoothly along the wood-paved streets he pressed his claim, and urged Celia to name an early date for the wedding. He had waited so long, he said, because he did not wish to interfere with the musical studies necessary to her professional career; but there was now no longer any reason for delay that he could see, and he was tired of being an engaged man; he was anxious to marry and settle down. His desire was reasonable, and Celia admitted that it was perfectly just. She had been expecting him to introduce the subject for some time past, and should have been prepared. She was prepared in a sense, and yet-- “Can’t you wait a little longer, David?” she pleaded diffidently, looking into his face with troubled eyes. “There is nothing to wait for now,” he answered. “It is only natural that I should wish to claim my bride.” He was quite right; there was nothing to wait for. Celia admitted that too, with a little tightening at her heart. Gazing straight in front of her at the trotting horse and dusty road, she tried to find some excuse for asking for a further delay, but except the possible production of Guy Haviland’s play, no excuse was forthcoming. She could not tell him, very well, that the thought of marriage awakened no joyful anticipation of future bliss, and that she would much prefer the freedom of spinsterhood for, say, another five years. Nor could she still plead her youth--she was twenty-three now; quite old enough to be married.