something was out of kilter.

His wife glanced wrathfully at his feet. Wonderingly he looked down. In
the heat of the battle with his cravat he had forgotten all about his
tennis shoes.

"I see. No soup for mine." He went back to his room, philosophically.
There was always something wrong when he got into these infernal clothes.

"Mother," said Nora, "why can't you let him be?"

"But white shoes!" in horror.

"Who cares? He's the patientest man I know. We're always nagging him, and
I for one am going to stop. Look about! So few men and women dress for
dinner. You do as you please here, and that is why I like it."

"I shall never be able to do anything with him as long as he sees that his
mistakes are being condoned by you," bitterly responded the mother. "Some
day he will humiliate us all by his carelessness."

"Oh, bother!" Nora's elbow slyly dug into Celeste's side.

The pianist's pretty face was bent over her soup. She had grown accustomed
to these little daily rifts. For the great, patient, clumsy,
happy-go-lucky man she entertained an intense pity. But it was not the
kind that humiliates; on the contrary, it was of a mothering disposition;
and the ex-gladiator dimly recognized it, and felt more comfortable with
her than with any other woman excepting Nora. She understood him perhaps
better than either mother or daughter; he was too late: he belonged to a
distant time, the beginning of the Christian era; and often she pictured
him braving the net and the trident in the saffroned arena.

Mrs. Harrigan broke her bread vexatiously. Her husband refused to think
for himself, and it was wearing on her nerves to watch him day and night.
Deep down under the surface of new adjustments and social ambitions, deep
in the primitive heart, he was still her man. But it was only when he
limped with an occasional twinge of rheumatism, or a tooth ached, or he
dallied with his meals, that the old love-instinct broke up through these
artificial crustations. True, she never knew how often he invented these
trivial ailments, for he soon came into the knowledge that she was less
concerned about him when he was hale and hearty. She still retained
evidences of a blossomy beauty. Abbott had once said truly that nature had
experimented on her; it was in the reproduction that perfection had been
reached. To see the father, the mother, and the daughter together it was
not difficult to fashion a theory as to the latter's splendid health and
physical superiority. Arriving at this point, however, theory began to
fray at the ends. No one could account for the genius and the voice. The
mother often stood lost in wonder that out of an ordinary childhood, a
barelegged, romping, hoydenish childhood, this marvel should emerge:
her's!

She was very ambitious for her daughter. She wanted to see nothing less
than a ducal coronet upon the child's brow, British preferred. If ordinary
chorus girls and vaudeville stars, possessing only passable beauty and no
intelligence whatever, could bring earls into their nets, there was no
reason why Nora could not be a princess or a duchess. So she planned
accordingly. But the child puzzled and eluded her; and from time to time
she discovered a disquieting strength of character behind a disarming
amiability. Ever since Nora had returned home by way of the Orient, the
mother had recognized a subtle change, so subtle that she never had an
opportunity of alluding to it verbally. Perhaps the fault lay at her own
door. She should never have permitted Nora to come abroad alone to fill
her engagements.

But that Nora was to marry a duke was, to her mind, a settled fact. It is
a peculiar phase, this of the humble who find themselves, without effort
of their own, thrust up among the great and the so-called, who forget
whence they came in the fierce contest for supremacy upon that tottering
ledge called society. The cad and the snob are only infrequently
well-born. Mrs. Harrigan was as yet far from being a snob, but it required
some tact upon Nora's part to prevent this dubious accomplishment.

"Is Mr. Abbott going with us?" she inquired.

"Donald is sulking," Nora answered. "For once the Barone got ahead of him
in engaging the motor-boat."

"I wish you would not call him by his first name."

"And why not? I like him, and he is a very good comrade."

"You do not call the Barone by his given name."

"Heavens, no! If I did he would kiss me. These Italians will never
understand western customs, mother. I shall never marry an Italian, much
as I love Italy."

"Nor a Frenchman?" asked Celeste.

"Nor a Frenchman."

"I wish I knew if you meant it," sighed the mother.

"My dear, I have given myself to the stage. You will never see me being
led to the altar."

"No, you will do the leading when the time comes," retorted the mother.

"Mother, the men I like you may count upon the fingers of one hand. Three
of them are old. For the rest, I despise men."

"I suppose some day you will marry some poverty-stricken artist," said the
mother, filled with dark foreboding.

"You would not call Donald poverty-stricken."

"No. But you will never marry him."

"No. I never shall."

Celeste smoothed her hands, a little trick she had acquired from long
hours spent at the piano. "He will make some woman a good husband."

"That he will."

"And he is most desperately in love with you."

"That's nonsense!" scoffed Nora. "He thinks he is. He ought to fall in
love with you, Celeste. Every time you play the fourth _ballade_ he looks
as if he was ready to throw himself at your feet."

"_Pouf!_ For ten minutes?" Celeste laughed bravely. "He leaves me quickly
enough when you begin to sing."

"Glamour, glamour!"

"Well, I should not care for the article second-hand."

The arrival of Harrigan put an end to this dangerous trend of
conversation. He walked in tight proper pumps, and sat down. He was only
hungry now; the zest for dining was gone.

"Don't go sitting out in the night air, Nora," he warned.

"I sha'n't."

"And don't dance more than you ought to. Your mother would let you wear
the soles off your shoes if she thought you were attracting attention.
Don't do it."

"James, that is not true," the mother protested.

"Well, Molly, you do like to hear 'em talk. I wish they knew how to cook a
good club steak."

"I brought up a book from the village for you to-day," said Mrs. Harrigan,
sternly.

"I'll bet a dollar it's on how to keep the creases in a fellow's pants."

"Trousers."

"Pants," helping himself to the last of the romaine. "What time do you go
over?"

"At nine. We must be getting ready now," said Nora. "Don't wait up for
us."

"And only one cigar," added the mother.

"Say, Molly, you keep closing in on me. Tobacco won't hurt me any, and I
get a good deal of comfort out of it these days."

"Two," smiled Nora.

"But his heart!"

"And what in mercy's name is the matter with his heart? The doctor at
Marienbad said that father was the soundest man of his age he had ever
met." Nora looked quizzically at her father.

He grinned. Out of his own mouth he had been nicely trapped. That morning
he had complained of a little twinge in his heart, a childish subterfuge
to take Mrs. Harrigan's attention away from the eternal society page of
the _Herald_. It had succeeded. He had even been cuddled.

"James, you told me..."

"Oh, Molly, I only wanted to talk to you."

"To do so it isn't necessary to frighten me to death," reproachfully. "One
cigar, and no more."

"Molly, what ails you?" as they left the dining-room. "Nora's right. That
sawbones said I was made of iron. I'm only smoking native cigars, and it
takes a bunch of 'em to get the taste of tobacco. All right; in a few
months you'll have me with the stuffed canary under the glass top. What's
the name of that book?" diplomatically.

"_Social Usages._"

"Break away!"

Nora laughed. "But, dad, you really must read it carefully. It will tell
you how to talk to a duchess, if you chance to meet one when I am not
around. It has all the names of the forks and knives and spoons, and it
tells you never to use sugar on your lettuce." And then she threw her arm
around her mother's waist. "Honey, when you buy books for father, be sure
they are by Dumas or Haggard or Doyle. Otherwise he will never read a
line."

"And I try so hard!" Tears came into Mrs. Harrigan's eyes.

"There, there, Molly, old girl!" soothed the outlaw. "I'll read the book.
I know I'm a stupid old stumbling-block, but it's hard to teach an old dog
new tricks, that is, at the ring of the gong. Run along to your party. And
don't break any more hearts than you need, Nora."

Nora promised in good faith. But once in the ballroom, that little son of
Satan called malice-aforethought took possession of her; and there was
havoc. If a certain American countess had not patronized her; if certain
lorgnettes (implements of torture used by said son of Satan) had not been
leveled in her direction; if certain fans had not been suggestively spread
between pairs of feminine heads,--Nora would have been as harmless as a
playful kitten.

From door to door of the ballroom her mother fluttered like a hen with a
duckling. Even Celeste was disturbed, for she saw that Nora's conduct was
not due to any light-hearted fun. There was something bitter and ironic
cloaked by those smiles, that tinkle of laughter. In fact, Nora from
Tuscany flirted outrageously. The Barone sulked and tore at his mustache.
He committed any number of murders, by eye and by wish. When his time came
to dance with the mischief-maker, he whirled her around savagely, and
never said a word; and once done with, he sternly returned her to her
mother, which he deemed the wisest course to pursue.

"Nora, you are behaving abominably!" whispered her mother, pale with
indignation.

"Well, I am having a good time ... Your dance? Thank you."

And a tender young American led her through the mazes of the waltz, as
some poet who knew what he was about phrased it.

It is not an exaggeration to say that there was not a woman in the
ballroom to compare with her, and some of them were marvelously gowned and
complexioned, too. She overshadowed them not only by sheer beauty, but by
exuberance of spirit. And they followed her with hating eyes and whispered
scandalous things behind their fans and wondered what had possessed the
Marchesa to invite the bold thing: so does mediocrity pay homage to beauty
and genius. As for the men, though madness lay that way, eagerly as of old
they sought it.

By way of parenthesis: Herr Rosen marched up the hill and down again,
something after the manner of a certain warrior king celebrated in verse.
The object of his visit had gone to the ball at Cadenabbia. At the hotel
he demanded a motor-boat. There was none to be had. In a furious state of
mind he engaged two oarsmen to row him across the lake.

And so it came to pass that when Nora, suddenly grown weary of the play,
full of bitterness and distaste, hating herself and every one else in the
world, stole out to the quay to commune with the moon, she saw him jump
from the boat to the landing, scorning the steps. Instantly she drew her
lace mantle closely about her face. It was useless. In the man the
hunter's instinct was much too keen.

"So I have found you!"

"One would say that I had been in hiding?" coldly.

"From me, always. I have left everything--duty, obligations--to seek
you."

"From any other man that might be a compliment."

"I am a prince," he said proudly.

She faced him with that quick resolution, that swift forming of purpose,
which has made the Irish so difficult in argument and persuasion. "Will
you marry me? Will you make me your wife legally? Before all the world?
Will you surrender, for the sake of this love you profess, your right to a
great inheritance? Will you risk the anger and the iron hand of your
father for my sake?"

"_Herr Gott!_ I am mad!" He covered his eyes.

"That expression proves that your Highness is sane again. Have you
realized the annoyances, the embarrassments, you have thrust upon me by
your pursuit? Have you not read the scandalous innuendoes in the
newspapers? Your Highness, I was not born on the Continent, so I look upon
my work from a point of view not common to those of your caste. I am proud
of it, and I look upon it with honor, honor. I am a woman, but I am not
wholly defenseless. There was a time when I thought I might number among
my friends a prince; but you have made that impossible."

"Come," he said hoarsely; "let us go and find a priest. You are right. I
love you; I will give up everything, everything!"

For a moment she was dumb. This absolute surrender appalled her. But that
good fortune which had ever been at her side stepped into the breach. And
as she saw the tall form of the Barone approach, she could have thrown her
arms around his neck in pure gladness.

"Oh, Barone!" she called. "Am I making you miss this dance?"

"It does not matter, Signorina." The Barone stared keenly at the erect and
tense figure at the prima donna's side.

"You will excuse me, Herr Rosen," said Nora, as she laid her hand upon the
Barone's arm.

Herr Rosen bowed stiffly; and the two left him standing uncovered in the
moonlight.

"What is he doing here? What has he been saying to you?" the Barone
demanded. Nora withdrew her hand from his arm. "Pardon me," said he
contritely. "I have no right to ask you such questions."

It was not long after midnight when the motor-boat returned to its abiding
place. On the way over conversation lagged, and finally died altogether.
Mrs. Harrigan fell asleep against Celeste's shoulder, and the musician
never deviated her gaze from the silver ripples which flowed out
diagonally and magically from the prow of the boat. Nora watched the stars
slowly ascend over the eastern range of mountains; and across the fire of
his innumerable cigarettes the Barone watched her.

As the boat was made fast to the landing in front of the Grand Hotel,
Celeste observed a man in evening dress, lounging against the rail of the
quay. The search-light from the customs-boat, hunting for tobacco
smugglers, flashed over his face. She could not repress the little gasp,
and her hand tightened upon Nora's arm.

"What is it?" asked Nora.

"Nothing. I thought I was slipping."

CHAPTER IX

COLONEL CAXLEY-WEBSTER

Abbott's studio was under the roof of one of the little hotels that stand
timorously and humbly, yet expectantly, between the imposing cream-stucco
of the Grand Hotel at one end and the elaborate pink-stucco of the Grande
Bretegne at the other. The hobnailed shoes of the Teuton (who wears his
mountain kit all the way from Hamburg to Palermo) wore up and down the
stairs all day; and the racket from the hucksters' carts and hotel
omnibuses, arriving and departing from the steamboat landing, the shouts
of the begging boatmen, the quarreling of the children and the barking of
unpedigreed dogs,--these noises were incessant from dawn until sunset.

The artist glared down from his square window at the ruffled waters, or
scowled at the fleeting snows on the mountains over the way. He passed
some ten or twelve minutes in this useless occupation, but he could not
get away from the bald fact that he had acted like a petulant child. To
have shown his hand so openly, simply because the Barone had beaten him in
the race for the motor-boat! And Nora would understand that he was weak
and without backbone. Harrigan himself must have reasoned out the cause
for such asinine plays as he had executed in the game of checkers. How
many times had the old man called out to him to wake up and move? In
spirit he had been across the lake, a spirit in Hades. He was not only a
fool, but a coward likewise. He had not dared to

                        "... put it to the touch
                        To gain or lose it all."

He saw it coming: before long he and that Italian would be at each other's
throats.

"Come in!" he called, in response to a sudden thunder on the door.

The door opened and a short, energetic old man, purple-visaged and
hawk-eyed, came in. "Why the devil don't you join the Trappist monks,
Abbott? If I wasn't tough I should have died of apoplexy on the second
landing."

"Good morning, Colonel!" Abbott laughed and rolled out the patent rocker
for his guest. "What's on your mind this morning? I can give you one
without ice."

"I'll take it neat, my boy. I'm not thirsty, I'm faint. These Italian
architects; they call three ladders flights of stairs! ... Ha! That's
Irish whisky, and jolly fine. Want you to come over and take tea this
afternoon. I'm going up presently to see the Harrigans. Thought I'd go
around and do the thing informally. Taken a fancy to the old chap. He's a
little bit of all right. I'm no older than he is, but look at the
difference! Whisky and soda, that's the racket. Not by the tubful; just an
ordinary half dozen a day, and a dem climate thrown in."

"Difference in training."

"Rot! It's the sized hat a man wears. I'd give fifty guineas to see the
old fellow in action. But, I say; recall the argument we had before you
went to Paris?"

"Yes."

"Well, I win. Saw him bang across the street this morning."

Abbott muttered something.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like 'dem it' to me."

"Maybe it did."

"Heard about him in Paris?"

"No."

"The old boy had transferred his regiment to a lonesome post in the North
to cool his blood. The youngster took the next train to Paris. He was
there incognito for two weeks before they found him and bundled him back.
Of course, every one knows that he is but a crazy lad who's had too much
freedom." The colonel emptied his glass. "I feel dem sorry for Nora. She's
the right sort. But a woman can't take a man by the scruff of his neck and
chuck him."

"But I can," declared Abbott savagely.

"Tut, tut! He'd eat you alive. Besides, you will find him too clever to
give you an opening. But he'll bear watching. He's capable of putting her
on a train and running away with her. Between you and me, I don't blame
him. What's the matter with sicking the Barone on him? He's the best man
in Southern Italy with foils and broadswords. Sic 'em, Towser; sic 'em!"
The old fire-eater chuckled.

The subject was extremely distasteful to the artist. The colonel, a rough
soldier, whose diplomacy had never risen above the heights of clubbing a
recalcitrant Hill man into submission, baldly inferred that he understood
the artist's interest in the rose of the Harrigan family. He would have
liked to talk more in regard to the interloper, but it would have been
sheer folly. The colonel, in his blundering way, would have brought up the
subject again at tea-time and put everybody on edge. He had, unfortunately
for his friends, a reputation other than that of a soldier: he posed as a
peacemaker. He saw trouble where none existed, and the way he patched up
imaginary quarrels would have strained the patience of Job. Still, every
one loved him, though they lived in mortal fear of him. So Abbott came
about quickly and sailed against the wind.

"By the way," he said, "I wish you would let me sketch that servant of
yours. He's got a profile like a medallion. Where did you pick him up?"

"In the Hills. He's a Sikh, and a first-class fighting man. Didn't know
that you went for faces."

"Not as a usual thing. Just want it for my own use. How does he keep his
beard combed that way?"

"I've never bothered myself about the curl of his whiskers. Are my clothes
laid out? Luggage attended to? Guns shipshape? That's enough for me. Some
day you have got to go out there with me."

"Never shot a gun in all my life. I don't know which end to hold at my
shoulder."

"Teach you quick enough. Every man's a born hunter. Rao will have tigers
eating out of your hand. He's a marvel; saved my hide more than once.
Funny thing; you can't show 'em that you're grateful. Lose caste if you
do. I rather miss it. Get the East in your blood and you'll never get it
out. Fascinating! But my liver turned over once too many times. Ha! Some
one coming up to buy a picture."

The step outside was firm and unwearied by the climb. The door opened
unceremoniously, and Courtlandt came in. He stared at the colonel and the
colonel returned the stare.

"Caxley-Webster! Well, I say, this globe goes on shrinking every day!"
cried Courtlandt.

The two pumped hands energetically, sizing each other up critically. Then
they sat down and shot questions, while Abbott looked on bewildered.
Elephants and tigers and chittahs and wild boar and quail-running and
strange guttural names; weltering nights in the jungles, freezing mornings
in the Hills; stupendous card games; and what had become of so-and-so, who
always drank his whisky neat; and what's-his-name, who invented cures for
snake bites!

Abbott deliberately pushed over an oak bench. "Am I host here or not?"

"Abby, old man, how are you?" said Courtlandt, smiling warmly and holding
out his hand. "My apologies; but the colonel and I never expected to see
each other again. And I find him talking with you up here under this roof.
It's marvelous."

"It's a wonder you wouldn't drop a fellow a line," said Abbott, in a
faultfinding tone, as he righted the bench. "When did you come?"

"Last night. Came up from Como."

"Going to stay long?"

"That depends. I am really on my way to Zermatt. I've a hankering to have
another try at the Matterhorn."

"Think of that!" exclaimed the colonel. "He says another try."

"You came a roundabout way," was the artist's comment.

"Oh, that's because I left Paris for Brescia. They had some good flights
there. Wonderful year! They cross the Channel in an airship and discover
the North Pole."

"Pah! Neither will be of any use to humanity; merely a fine sporting
proposition." The colonel dug into his pocket for his pipe. "But what do
you think of Germany?"

"Fine country," answered Courtlandt, rising and going to a window; "fine
people, too. Why?"

"Do you--er--think they could whip us?"

"On land, yes."

"The devil!"

"On water, no."

"Thanks. In other words, you believe our chances equal?"

"So equal that all this war-scare is piffle. But I rather like to see you
English get up in the air occasionally. It will do you good. You've an
idea because you walloped Napoleon that you're the same race you were
then, and you are not. The English-speaking races, as the first soldiers,
have ceased to be."

"Well, I be dem!" gasped the colonel.

"It's the truth. Take the American: he thinks there is nothing in the
world but money. Take the Britisher: to him caste is everything. Take the
money out of one man's mind and the importance of being well-born out of
the other...." He turned from the window and smiled at the artist and the
empurpling Anglo-Indian.

"Abbott," growled the soldier, "that man will some day drive me amuck.
What do you think? One night, on a tiger hunt, he got me into an argument
like this. A brute of a beast jumped into the middle of it. Courtlandt
shot him on the second bound, and turned to me with--'Well, as I was
saying!' I don't know to this day whether it was nerve or what you
Americans call gall."

"Divided by two," grinned Abbott.

"Ha, I see; half nerve and half gall. I'll remember that. But we were
talking of airships."

"I was," retorted Courtlandt. "You were the man who started the powwow."
He looked down into the street with sudden interest. "Who is that?"

The colonel and Abbott hurried across the room.

"What did I say, Abbott? I told you I saw him. He's crazy; fact. Thinks he
can travel around incognito when there isn't a magazine on earth that
hasn't printed his picture."

"Well, why shouldn't he travel around if he wants to?" asked Courtlandt
coolly.

The colonel nudged the artist.

"There happens to be an attraction in Bellaggio," said Abbott irritably.

"The moth and the candle," supplemented the colonel, peering over
Courtlandt's shoulder. "He's well set up," grudgingly admitted the old
fellow.

"The moth and the candle," mused Courtlandt. "That will be Nora Harrigan.
How long has this infatuation been going on?"

"Year and a half."

"And the other side?"

"There isn't any other side," exploded the artist. "She's worried to
death. Not a day passes but some scurrilous penny-a-liner springs some
yarn, some beastly innuendo. She's been dodging the fellow for months. In
Paris last year she couldn't move without running into him. This year she
changed her apartment, and gave orders at the Opera to refuse her address
to all who asked for it. Consequently she had some peace. I don't know why
it is, but a woman in public life seems to be a target."

"The penalty of beauty, Abby. Homely women seldom are annoyed, unless they
become suffragists." The colonel poured forth a dense cloud of smoke.

"What brand is that, Colonel?" asked Courtlandt, choking.

The colonel generously produced his pouch.

"No, no! I was about to observe that it isn't ambrosia."

"Rotter!" The soldier dug the offender in the ribs. "I am going to have
the Harrigans over for tea this afternoon. Come over! You'll like the
family. The girl is charming; and the father is a sportsman to the
backbone. Some silly fools laugh behind his back, but never before his
face. And my word, I know rafts of gentlemen who are not fit to stand in
his shoes."

"I should like to meet Mr. Harrigan." Courtlandt returned his gaze to the
window once more.

"And his daughter?" said Abbott, curiously.

"Oh, surely!"

"I may count on you, then?" The colonel stowed away the offending brier.
"And you can stay to dinner."

"I'll take the dinner end of the invitation," was the reply. "I've got to
go over to Menaggio to see about some papers to be signed. If I can make
the three o'clock boat in returning, you'll see me at tea. Dinner at all
events. I'm off."

"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you have important business?"
jeered Abbott.

"My boy, the reason I'm on trains and boats, year in and year out, is in
the vain endeavor to escape important business. Now and then I am rounded
up. Were you ever hunted by money?" humorously.

"No," answered the Englishman sadly. "But I know one thing: I'd throw the
race at the starting-post. Millions, Abbott, and to be obliged to run away
from them! If the deserts hadn't dried up all my tears, I should weep. Why
don't you hire a private secretary to handle your affairs?"

"And have him following at my heels?" Courtlandt gazed at his lean brown
hands. "When these begin to shake, I'll do so. Well, I shall see you both
at dinner, whatever happens."

"That's Courtlandt," said Abbott, when his friend was gone. "You think
he's in Singapore, the door opens and in he walks; never any letter or
announcement. He arrives, that's all."

"Strikes me," returned the other, polishing his glass, holding it up to
the light, and then screwing it into his eye; "strikes me, he wasn't
overanxious to have that dish of tea. Afraid of women?"

"Afraid of women! Why, man, he backed two musical shows in the States a
few years ago."

"Musical comedies?" The glass dropped from the colonel's eye. "That's
going tigers one better. Forty women, all waiting to be stars, and solemn
Courtlandt wandering among them as the god of amity! Afraid of them! Of
course he is. Who wouldn't be, after such an experience?" The colonel
laughed. "Never had any serious affair?"

"Never heard of one. There was some tommy-rot about a Mahommedan princess
in the newspapers; but I knew there was no truth in that. Queer fellow! He
wouldn't take the trouble to deny it."

"Never showed any signs of being a woman-hater?"

"No, not the least in the world. But to shy at meeting Nora Harrigan...."

"There you have it; the privilege of the gods. Perhaps he really has
business in Menaggio. What'll we do with the other beggar?"

"Knock his head off, if he bothers her."

"Better turn the job over to Courtlandt, then. You're in the light-weight
class, and Courtlandt is the best amateur for his weight I ever saw."

"What, boxes?"

"A tough 'un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India.
Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third
round."

"I never knew that before. He's as full of surprises as a rummage bag."

Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then
before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination;
yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various
curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which
needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt
act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He
could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet
he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task
was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods
on his side.

At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet
which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out
into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there
was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to
learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly.
The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one
hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it
and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted
away. Three bars from _La Bohème_. He laughed. So the little lady of the
Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio!

CHAPTER X

MARGUERITES AND EMERALDS

From where he sat Courtlandt could see down the main thoroughfare of the
pretty village. There were other streets, to be sure, but courtesy and
good nature alone permitted this misapplication of title: they were merely
a series of torturous enervating stairways of stone, up and down which
noisy wooden sandals clattered all the day long. Over the entrances to the
shops the proprietors were dropping the white and brown awnings for the
day. Very few people shopped after luncheon. There were pleasanter
pastimes, even for the women, contradictory as this may seem. By eleven
o'clock Courtlandt had finished the reading of his mail, and was now ready
to hunt for the little lady of the Taverne Royale. It was necessary to
find her. The whereabouts of Flora Desimone was of vital importance. If
she had not yet arrived, the presence of her friend presaged her ultimate
arrival. The duke was a negligible quantity. It would have surprised
Courtlandt could he have foreseen the drawing together of the ends of the
circle and the relative concernment of the duke in knotting those ends.
The labors of Hercules had never entailed the subjugation of two
temperamental women.

He rose and proceeded on his quest. Before the photographer's shop he saw
a dachel wrathfully challenging a cat on the balcony of the adjoining
building. The cat knew, and so did the puppy, that it was all buncombe on
the puppy's part: the usual European war-scare, in which one of the
belligerent parties refused to come down because it wouldn't have been
worth while, there being the usual Powers ready to intervene. Courtlandt
did not bother about the cat; the puppy claimed his attention. He was very
fond of dogs. So he reached down suddenly and put an end to the sharp
challenge. The dachel struggled valiantly, for this breed of dog does not
make friends easily.

"I say, you little Dutchman, what's the row? I'm not going to hurt you.
Funny little codger! To whom do you belong?" He turned the collar around,
read the inscription, and gently put the puppy on the ground.

Nora Harrigan!

His immediate impulse was to walk on, but somehow this impulse refused to
act on his sense of locomotion. He waited, dully wondering what was going
to happen when she came out. He had left her room that night in Paris,
vowing that he would never intrude on her again. With the recollection of
that bullet whizzing past his ear, he had been convinced that the play was
done. True, she had testified that it had been accidental, but never would
he forget the look in her eyes. It was not pleasant to remember. And
still, as the needle is drawn by the magnet, here he was, in Bellaggio. He
cursed his weakness. From Brescia he had made up his mind to go directly
to Berlin. Before he realized how useless it was to battle against these
invisible forces, he was in Milan, booking for Como. At Como he had
remained a week (the dullest week he had ever known); at the Villa d'Este
three days; at Cadenabbia one day. It had all the characteristics of a
tug-of-war, and irresistibly he was drawn over the line. The night before
he had taken the evening boat across the lake. And Herr Rosen had been his
fellow-passenger! The goddess of chance threw whimsical coils around her
victims. To find himself shoulder to shoulder, as it were, with this man
who, perhaps more than all other incentives, had urged him to return again
to civilization; this man who had aroused in his heart a sentiment that
hitherto he had not believed existed,--jealousy.... Ah, voices! He stepped
aside quickly.

"Fritz, Fritz; where are you?"

And a moment later she came out, followed by her mother ... and the little
lady of the Taverne Royale. Did Nora see him? It was impossible to tell.
She simply stooped and gathered up the puppy, who struggled determinedly
to lick her face. Courtlandt lifted his hat. It was in nowise offered as
an act of recognition; it was merely the mechanical courtesy that a man
generally pays to any woman in whose path he chances to be for the breath
of a second. The three women in immaculate white, hatless, but with
sunshades, passed on down the street.

Courtlandt went into the shop, rather blindly. He stared at the shelves of
paper-covered novels and post-cards, and when the polite proprietor
offered him a dozen of the latter, he accepted them without comment.
Indeed, he put them into a pocket and turned to go out.

"Pardon, sir; those are one franc the dozen."

"Ah, yes." Courtlandt pulled out some silver. It was going to be terribly
difficult, and his heart was heavy with evil presages. He had seen
Celeste. He understood the amusing if mysterious comedy now. Nora had
recognized him and had sent her friend to follow him and learn where he
went. And he, poor fool of a blunderer, with the best intentions in the
world, he had gone at once to the Calabrian's apartment! It was damnable
of fate. He had righted nothing. In truth, he was deeper than ever in the
quicksands of misunderstanding. He shut his teeth with a click. How neatly
she had waylaid and trapped him!

"Those are from Lucerne, sir."

"What?" bewildered.

"Those wood-carvings which you are touching with your cane, sir."

"I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt, apologetically, and gained the open.
He threw a quick glance down the street. There they were. He proceeded in
the opposite direction, toward his hotel. Tea at the colonel's? Scarcely.
He would go to Menaggio with the hotel motor-boat and return so late that
he would arrive only in time for dinner. He was not going to meet the
enemy over tea-cups, at least, not under the soldier's tactless
supervision. He must find a smoother way, calculated, under the rose, but
seemingly accidental. It was something to ponder over.

"Nora, who was that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan.

"Who was who?" countered Nora, snuggling the wriggling dachel under her
arm and throwing the sunshade across her shoulder.

"That fine-looking young man who stood by the door as we passed out. He
raised his hat."

"Oh, bother! I was looking at Fritz."

Celeste searched her face keenly, but Nora looked on ahead serenely; not a
quiver of an eyelid, not the slightest change in color or expression.

"She did not see him!" thought the musician, curiously stirred. She knew
her friend tolerably well. It would have been impossible for her to have
seen that man and not to have given evidence of the fact.

In short, Nora had spoken truthfully. She had seen a man dressed in white
flannels and canvas shoes, but her eyes had not traveled so far as his
face.

"Mother, we must have some of those silk blankets. They're so comfy to lie
on."

"You never see anything except when you want to," complained Mrs.
Harrigan.

"It saves a deal of trouble. I don't want to go to the colonel's this
afternoon. He always has some frump to pour tea and ask fool questions."

"The frump, as you call her, is usually a countess or a duchess," with
asperity.

"Fiddlesticks! Nobility makes a specialty of frumps; it is one of the
species of the caste. That's why I shall never marry a title. I wish
neither to visit nor to entertain frumps. Frump,--the word calls up the
exact picture; frump and fatuity. Oh, I'll go, but I'd rather stay on my
balcony and read a good book."

"My dear," patiently, "the colonel is one of the social laws on Como. His
sister is the wife of an earl. You must not offend him. His Sundays are
the most exclusive on the lake."

"The word exclusive should be properly applied to those in jail. The
social ladder, the social ladder! Don't you know, mother mine, that every
rung is sawn by envy and greed, and that those who climb highest fall
farthest?"

"You are quoting the padre."

"The padre could give lessons in kindness and shrewdness to any other man
I know. If he hadn't chosen the gown he would have been a poet. I love the
padre, with his snow-white hair and his withered leathery face. He was
with the old king all through the freeing of Italy."

"And had a fine time explaining to the Vatican," sniffed the mother.

"Some day I am going to confess to him."

"Confess what?" asked Celeste.

"That I have wished the Calabrian's voice would fail her some night in
_Carmen_; that I am wearing shoes a size too small for me; that I should
like to be rich without labor; that I am sometimes ashamed of my calling;
that I should have liked to see father win a prizefight; oh, and a
thousand other horrid, hateful things."

"I wish to gracious that you would fall violently in love."

"Spiteful! There are those lovely lace collars; come on."

"You are hopeless," was the mother's conviction.

"In some things, yes," gravely.

"Some day," said Celeste, who was a privileged person in the Harrigan
family, "some day I am going to teach you two how to play at foils. It
would be splendid. And then you could always settle your differences with
bouts."

"Better than that," retorted Nora. "I'll ask father to lend us his old set
of gloves. He carries them around as if they were a fetish. I believe
they're in the bottom of one of my steamer trunks."

"Nora!" Mrs. Harrigan was not pleased with this jest. Any reference to the
past was distasteful to her ears. She, too, went regularly to confession,
but up to the present time had omitted the sin of being ashamed of her
former poverty and environment. She had taken it for granted that upon her
shoulders rested the future good fortune of the Harrigans. They had money;
all that was required was social recognition. She found it a battle within
a battle. The good-natured reluctance of her husband and the careless
indifference of her daughter were as hard to combat as the icy aloofness
of those stars into whose orbit she was pluckily striving to steer the
family bark. It never entered her scheming head that the reluctance of the
father and the indifference of the daughter were the very conditions that
drew society nearward, for the simple novelty of finding two persons who
did not care in the least whether they were recognized or not.

The trio invaded the lace shop, and Nora and her mother agreed to bury the
war-hatchet in their mutual love of Venetian and Florentine fineries.
Celeste pretended to be interested, but in truth she was endeavoring to
piece together the few facts she had been able to extract from the rubbish
of conjecture. Courtlandt and Nora had met somewhere before the beginning
of her own intimacy with the singer. They certainly must have formed an
extraordinary friendship, for Nora's subsequent vindictiveness could not
possibly have arisen out of the ruins of an indifferent acquaintance. Nora
could not be moved from the belief that Courtlandt had abducted her; but
Celeste was now positive that he had had nothing to do with it. He did not
impress her as a man who would abduct a woman, hold her prisoner for five
days, and then liberate her without coming near her to press his vantage,
rightly or wrongly. He was too strong a personage. He was here in
Bellaggio, and attached to that could be but one significance.

Why, then, had he not spoken at the photographer's? Perhaps she herself
had been sufficient reason for his dumbness. He had recognized her, and
the espionage of the night in Paris was no longer a mystery. Nora had sent
her to follow him; why then all this bitterness, since she had not been
told where he had gone? Had Nora forgotten to inquire? It was possible
that, in view of the startling events which had followed, the matter had
slipped entirely from Nora's mind. Many a time she had resorted to that
subtle guile known only of woman to trap the singer. But Nora never
stumbled, and her smile was as firm a barrier to her thoughts, her
secrets, as a stone wall would have been.

Celeste had known about Herr Rosen's infatuation. Aside from that which
concerned this stranger, Nora had withheld no real secret from her. Herr
Rosen had been given his congé, but that did not prevent him from sending
fabulous baskets of flowers and gems, all of which were calmly returned
without comment. Whenever a jewel found its way into a bouquet of flowers
from an unknown, Nora would promptly convert it into money and give the
proceeds to some charity. It afforded the singer no small amusement to
show her scorn in this fashion. Yes, there was one other little mystery
which she did not confide to her friends. Once a month, wherever she
chanced to be singing, there arrived a simple bouquet of marguerites, in
the heart of which they would invariably find an uncut emerald. Nora never
disposed of these emeralds. The flowers she would leave in her
dressing-room; the emerald would disappear. Was there some one else?

Mrs. Harrigan took the omnibus up to the villa. It was generally too much
of a climb for her. Nora and Celeste preferred to walk.

"What am I going to do, Celeste? He is here, and over at Cadenabbia last
night I had a terrible scene with him. In heaven's name, why can't they
let me be?"

"Herr Rosen?"

"Yes."

"Why not speak to your father?"

"And have a fisticuff which would appear in every newspaper in the world?
No, thank you. There is enough scandalous stuff being printed as it is,
and I am helpless to prevent it."

As the climb starts off stiffly, there wasn't much inclination in either
to talk. Celeste had come to one decision, and that was that Nora should
find out Courtlandt's presence here in Bellaggio herself. When they
arrived at the villa gates, Celeste offered a suggestion.

"You could easily stop all this rumor and annoyance."

"And, pray, how?"

"Marry."

"I prefer the rumor and annoyance. I hate men. Most of them are beasts."

"You are prejudiced."

If Celeste expected Nora to reply that she had reason, she was
disappointed, Nora quickened her pace, that was all.

At luncheon Harrigan innocently threw a bomb into camp by inquiring: "Say,
Nora, who's this chump Herr Rosen? He was up here last night and again
this morning. I was going to offer him the cot on the balcony, but I
thought I'd consult you first."

"Herr Rosen!" exclaimed Mrs. Harrigan, a flutter in her throat. "Why,
that's...."

"A charming young man who wishes me to sign a contract to sing to him in
perpetuity," interrupted Nora, pressing her mother's foot warningly.

"Well, why don't you marry him?" laughed Harrigan. "There's worse things
than frankfurters and sauerkraut."

"Not that I can think of just now," returned Nora.

CHAPTER XI

AT THE CRATER'S EDGE

Harrigan declared that he would not go over to Caxley-Webster's to tea.

"But I've promised for you!" expostulated his wife. "And he admires you
so."

"Bosh! You women can gad about as much as you please, but I'm in wrong
when it comes to eating sponge-cake and knuckling my knees under a dinky
willow table. And then he always has some frump...."

"Frump!" repeated Nora, delighted.

"Frump inspecting me through a pair of eye-glasses as if I was a new kind
of an animal. It's all right, Molly, when there's a big push. They don't
notice me much then. But these six by eight parties have me covering."

"Very well, dad," agreed Nora, who saw the storm gathering in her mother's
eyes. "You can stay home and read the book mother got you yesterday. Where
are you now?"

"Page one," grinning.

Mrs. Harrigan wisely refrained from continuing the debate. James had made
up his mind not to go. If the colonel repeated his invitation to dinner,
where there would be only the men folk, why, he'd gladly enough go to
that.

The women departed at three, for there was to be tennis until five
o'clock. When Harrigan was reasonably sure that they were half the
distance to the colonel's villa, he put on his hat, whistled to the
dachel, and together they took the path to the village.

"We'd look fine drinking tea, wouldn't we, old scout?" reaching down and
tweaking the dog's velvet ears. "They don't understand, and it's no use
trying to make 'em. Nora gets as near as possible. Herr Rosen! Now, where
have I seen his phiz before? I wish I had a real man to talk to. Abbott
sulks half the time, and the Barone can't get a joke unless it's driven in
with a mallet. On your way, old scout, or I'll step on you. Let's see if
we can hoof it down to the village at a trot without taking the count."

He had but two errands to execute. The first was accomplished expeditely
in the little tobacconist's shop under the arcade, where the purchase of a
box of Minghetti cigars promised later solace. These cigars were cheap,
but Harrigan had a novel way of adding to their strength if not to their
aroma. He possessed a meerschaum cigar-holder, in which he had smoked
perfectos for some years. The smoke of an ordinary cigar became that of a
regalia by the time it passed through the nicotine-soaked clay into the
amber mouthpiece. He had kept secret the result of this trifling
scientific research. It wouldn't have been politic to disclose it to
Molly. The second errand took time and deliberation. He studied the long
shelves of Tauchnitz. Having red corpuscles in superabundance, he
naturally preferred them in his literature, in the same quantity.

"Ever read this?" asked a pleasant voice from behind, indicating _Rodney
Stone_ with the ferrule of a cane.

Harrigan looked up. "No. What's it about?"

"Best story of the London prize-ring ever written. You're Mr. Harrigan,
aren't you?"

"Yes," diffidently.

"My name is Edward Courtlandt. If I am not mistaken, you were a great
friend of my father's."

"Are you Dick Courtlandt's boy?"

"I am."

"Well, say!" Harrigan held out his hand and was gratified to encounter a
man's grasp. "So you're Edward Courtlandt? Now, what do you think of that!
Why, your father was the best sportsman I ever met. Square as they make
'em. Not a kink anywhere in his make-up. He used to come to the bouts in
his plug hat and dress suit; always had a seat by the ring. I could hear
him tap with his cane when there happened to be a bit of pretty sparring.
He was no slouch himself when it came to putting on the mitts. Many's the
time I've had a round or two with him in my old gymnasium. Well, well!
It's good to see a man again. I've seen your name in the papers, but I
never knew you was Dick's boy. You've got an old grizzly's head in your
dining-room at home. Some day I'll tell you how it got there, when you're
not in a hurry. I went out to Montana for a scrap, and your dad went
along. After the mill was over, we went hunting. Come up to the villa and
meet the folks.... Hang it, I forgot. They're up to Caxley-Webster's to
tea; piffle water and sticky sponge-cake. I want you to meet my wife and
daughter."

"I should be very pleased to meet them." So this was Nora's father? "Won't
you come along with me to the colonel's?" with sudden inspiration. Here
was an opportunity not to be thrust aside lightly.

"Why, I just begged off. They won't be expecting me now."

"All the better. I'd rather have you introduce me to your family than to
have the colonel. As a matter of fact, I told him I couldn't get up. But I
changed my mind. Come along." The first rift in the storm-packed clouds;
and to meet her through the kindly offices of this amiable man who was her
father!

"But the pup and the cigar box?"

"Send them up."

Harrigan eyed his own spotless flannels and compared them with the
other's. What was good enough for the son of a millionaire was certainly
good enough for him. Besides, it would be a bully good joke on Nora and
Molly.

"You're on!" he cried. Here was a lark. He turned the dog and the
purchases over to the proprietor, who promised that they should arrive
instantly at the villa.

Then the two men sought the quay to engage a boat. They walked shoulder to
shoulder, flat-backed, with supple swinging limbs, tanned faces and clear
animated eyes. Perhaps Harrigan was ten or fifteen pounds heavier, but the
difference would have been noticeable only upon the scales.

"Padre, my shoe pinches," said Nora with a pucker between her eyes.

"My child," replied the padre, "never carry your vanity into a shoemaker's
shop. The happiest man is he who walks in loose shoes."

"If they are his own, and not inherited," quickly.

The padre laughed quietly. He was very fond of this new-found daughter of
his. Her spontaneity, her blooming beauty, her careless observation of
convention, her independence, had captivated him. Sometimes he believed
that he thoroughly understood her, when all at once he would find himself
mentally peering into some dark corner into which the penetrating light of
his usually swift deduction could throw no glimmer. She possessed the sins
of the butterfly and the latent possibilities of a Judith. She was the
most interesting feminine problem he had in his long years encountered.
The mother mildly amused him, for he could discern the character that she
was sedulously striving to batten down beneath inane social usages and
formalities. Some day she would revert to the original type, and then he
would be glad to renew the acquaintance. In rather a shamefaced way (a
sensation he could not quite analyze) he loved the father. The pugilist
will always embarrass the scholar and excite a negligible envy; for
physical perfection is the most envied of all nature's gifts. The padre
was short, thickset, and inclined toward stoutness in the region of the
middle button of his cassock. But he was active enough for all purposes.

"I have had many wicked thoughts lately," resumed Nora, turning her gaze
away from the tennis players. She and the padre were sitting on the lower
steps of the veranda. The others were loitering by the nets.

"The old plaint disturbs you?"

"Yes."

"Can you not cast it out wholly?"

"Hate has many tentacles."

"What produces that condition of mind?" meditatively. "Is it because we
have wronged somebody?"

"Or because somebody has wronged us?"

"Or misjudged us, by us have been misjudged?" softly.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Nora, springing up.

"What is it?"

"Father is coming up the path!"

"I am glad to see him. But I do not recollect having seen the face of the
man with him."

The lithe eagerness went out of Nora's body instantly. Everything seemed
to grow cold, as if she had become enveloped in one of those fogs that
suddenly blow down menacingly from hidden icebergs. Fortunately the
inquiring eyes of the padre were not directed at her. He was here, not a
dozen yards away, coming toward her, her father's arm in his! After what
had passed he had dared! It was not often that Nora Harrigan was subjected
to a touch of vertigo, but at this moment she felt that if she stirred
ever so little she must fall. The stock whence she had sprung, however,
was aggressive and fearless; and by the time Courtlandt had reached the
outer markings of the courts, Nora was physically herself again. The
advantage of the meeting would be his. That was indubitable. Any mistake
on her part would be playing into his hands. If only she had known!

"Let us go and meet them, Padre," she said quietly. With her father, her
mother and the others, the inevitable introduction would be shorn of its
danger. What Celeste might think was of no great importance; Celeste had
been tried and her loyalty proven. Where had her father met him, and what
diabolical stroke of fate had made him bring this man up here?

"Nora!" It was her mother calling.

She put her arm through the padre's, and they went forward leisurely.

"Why, father, I thought you weren't coming," said Nora. Her voice was
without a tremor.

The padre hadn't the least idea that a volcano might at any moment open up
at his side. He smiled benignly.

"Changed my mind," said Harrigan. "Nora, Molly, I want you to meet Mr.
Courtlandt. I don't know that I ever said anything about it, but his
father was one of the best friends I ever had. He was on his way up here,
so I came along with him." Then Harrigan paused and looked about him
embarrassedly. There were half a dozen unfamiliar faces.

The colonel quickly stepped into the breach, and the introduction of
Courtlandt became general. Nora bowed, and became at once engaged in an
animated conversation with the Barone, who had just finished his set
victoriously.

The padre's benign smile slowly faded.

CHAPTER XII

DICK COURTLANDT'S BOY

Presently the servants brought out the tea-service. The silent
dark-skinned Sikh, with his fierce curling whiskers, his flashing eyes,
the semi-military, semi-oriental garb, topped by an enormous brown turban,
claimed Courtlandt's attention; and it may be added that he was glad to
have something to look at unembarrassedly. He wanted to catch the Indian's
eye, but Rao had no glances to waste; he was concerned with the immediate
business of superintending the service.

Courtlandt had never been a man to surrender to impulse. It had been his
habit to form a purpose and then to go about the fulfilling of it. During
the last four or five months, however, he had swung about like a
weather-cock in April, the victim of a thousand and one impulses. That
morning he would have laughed had any one prophesied his presence here. He
had fought against the inclination strongly enough at first, but as hour
after hour went by his resolution weakened. His meeting Harrigan had been
a stroke of luck. Still, he would have come anyhow.

"Oh, yes; I am very fond of Como," he found himself replying mechanically
to Mrs. Harrigan. He gave up Rao as hopeless so far as coming to his
rescue was concerned. He began, despite his repugnance, to watch Nora.

"It is always a little cold in the higher Alps."

"I am very fond of climbing myself." Nora was laughing and jesting with
one of the English tennis players. Not for nothing had she been called a
great actress, he thought. It was not humanly possible that her heart was
under better control than his own; and yet his was pounding against his
ribs in a manner extremely disquieting. Never must he be left alone with
her; always must it be under circumstances like this, with people about,
and the more closely about the better. A game like this was far more
exciting than tiger-hunting. It was going to assume the characteristics of
a duel in which he, being the more advantageously placed, would succeed
eventually in wearing down her guard. Hereafter, wherever she went, there
must he also go: St. Petersburg or New York or London. And by and by the
reporters would hear of it, and there would be rumors which he would
neither deny nor affirm. Sport! He smiled, and the blood seemed to recede
from his throat and his heart-beats to grow normal.

And all the while Mrs. Harrigan was talking and he was replying; and she
thought him charming, whereas he had not formed any opinion of her at all,
nor later could remember a word of the conversation.

"Tea!" bawled the colonel. The verb had its distinct uses, and one
generally applied it to the colonel's outbursts without being depressed by
the feeling of inelegance.

There is invariably some slight hesitation in the selection of chairs
around a tea-table in the open. Nora scored the first point of this
singular battle by seizing the padre on one side and her father on the
other and pulling them down on the bench. It was adroit in two ways: it
put Courtlandt at a safe distance and in nowise offended the younger men,
who could find no cause for alarm in the close proximity of her two
fathers, the spiritual and the physical. A few moments later Courtlandt
saw a smile of malice part her lips, for he found himself between Celeste
and the inevitable frump.

"Touched!" he murmured, for he was a thorough sportsman and appreciated a
good point even when taken by his opponent.

"I never saw anything like it," whispered Mrs. Harrigan into the colonel's
ear.

"Saw what?" he asked.

"Mr. Courtlandt can't keep his eyes off of Nora."

"I say!" The colonel adjusted his eye-glass, not that he expected to see
more clearly by doing so, but because habit had long since turned an
affectation into a movement wholly mechanical. "Well, who can blame him?
Gad! if I were only twenty-five or thereabouts."

Mrs. Harrigan did not encourage this regret. The colonel had never been a
rich man. On the other hand, this Edward Courtlandt was very rich; he was
young; and he had the entrée to the best families in Europe, which was
greater in her eyes than either youth or riches. Between sips of tea she
builded a fine castle in Spain.

Abbott and the Barone carried their cups and cakes over to the bench and
sat down on the grass, Turkish-wise. Both simultaneously offered their
cakes, and Nora took a ladyfinger from each. Abbott laughed and the Barone
smiled.

"Oh, daddy mine!" sighed Nora drolly.

"Huh?"

"Don't let mother see those shoes."

"What's the matter with 'em? Everybody's wearing the same."

"Yes. But I don't see how you manage to do it. One shoe-string is virgin
white and the other is pagan brown."

"I've got nine pairs of shoes, and yet there's always something the
matter," ruefully. "I never noticed when I put them on. Besides, I wasn't
coming."

"That's no defense. But rest easy. I'll be as secret as the grave."

"Now, I for one would never have noticed if you hadn't called my
attention," said the padre, stealing a glance at his own immaculate
patent-leathers.

"Ah, Padre, that wife of mine has eyes like a pilot-fish. I'm in for it."

"Borrow one from the colonel before you go home," suggested Abbott.

"That's not half bad," gratefully.

Harrigan began to recount the trials of forgetfulness.

Slyly from the corner of her eye Nora looked at Courtlandt, who was at
that moment staring thoughtfully into his tea-cup and stirring the
contents industriously. His face was a little thinner, but aside from that
he had changed scarcely at all; and then, because these two years had left
so little mark upon his face, a tinge of unreasonable anger ran over her.
"Men have died and worms have eaten them," she thought cynically. Perhaps
the air between them was sufficiently charged with electricity to convey
the impression across the intervening space; for his eyes came up quickly,
but not quickly enough to catch her. She dropped her glance to Abbott,
transferred it to the Barone, and finally let it rest on her father's
face. Four handsomer men she had never seen.

"You never told me you knew Courtlandt," said Harrigan, speaking to
Abbott.

"Just happened that way. We went to school together. When I was little
they used to make me wear curls and wide collars. Many's the time
Courtlandt walloped the school bullies for mussing me up. I don't see him
much these days. Once in a while he walks in. That's all. Always seems to
know where his friends are, but none ever knows where he is."

Abbott proceeded to elaborate some of his friend's exploits. Nora heard,
as if from afar. Vaguely she caught a glimmer of what the contest was
going to be. She could see only a little way; still, she was
optimistically confident of the result. She was ready. Indeed, now that
the shock of the meeting was past, she found herself not at all averse to
a conflict. It would be something to let go the pent-up wrath of two
years. Never would she speak to him directly; never would she permit him
to be alone with her; never would she miss a chance to twist his heart, to
humiliate him, to snub him. From her point of view, whatever game he chose
to play would be a losing one. She was genuinely surprised to learn how
eager she was for the game to begin so that she might gage his strength.

"So I have heard," she was dimly conscious of saying.

"Didn't know you knew," said Abbott.

"Knew what?" rousing herself.

"That Courtlandt nearly lost his life in the eighties."

"In the eighties!" dismayed at her slip.

"Latitudes. Polar expedition."

"Heavens! I was miles away."

The padre took her hand in his own and began to pat it softly. It was the
nearest he dared approach in the way of suggesting caution. He alone of
them all knew.

"Oh, I believe I read something about it in the newspapers."

"Five years ago." Abbott set down his tea-cup. "He's the bravest man I
know. He's rather a friendless man, besides. Horror of money. Thinks every
one is after him for that. Tries to throw it away; but the income piles up
too quickly. See that Indian, passing the cakes? Wouldn't think it, would
you, that Courtlandt carried him on his back for five miles! The Indian
had fallen afoul a wounded tiger, and the beaters were miles off. I've
been watching. They haven't even spoken to each other. Courtlandt's
probably forgotten all about the incident, and the Indian would die rather
than embarrass his savior before strangers."

"Your friend, then, is quite a hero?"

What was the matter with Nora's voice? Abbott looked at her wonderingly.
The tone was hard and unmusical.

"He couldn't be anything else, being Dick Courtlandt's boy," volunteered
Harrigan, with enthusiasm. "It runs in the family."

"It seems strange," observed Nora, "that I never heard you mention that
you knew a Mr. Courtlandt."

"Why, Nora, there's a lot of things nobody mentions unless chance brings
them up. Courtlandt--the one I knew--has been dead these sixteen years. If
I knew he had had a son, I'd forgotten all about it. The only graveyard
isn't on the hillside; there's one under everybody's thatch."

The padre nodded approvingly.

Nora was not particularly pleased with this phase in the play. Courtlandt
would find a valiant champion in her father, who would blunder in when
some fine passes were being exchanged. And she could not tell him; she
would have cut out her tongue rather. It was true that she held the
principal cards in the game, but she could not table them and claim the
tricks as in bridge. She must patiently wait for him to lead, and he, as
she very well knew, would lead a card at a time, and then only after
mature deliberation. From the exhilaration which attended the prospect of
battle she passed into a state of depression, which lasted the rest of the
afternoon.

"Will you forgive me?" asked Celeste of Courtlandt. Never had she felt
more ill at ease. For a full ten minutes he chatted pleasantly, with never
the slightest hint regarding the episode in Paris. She could stand it no
longer. "Will you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"That night in Paris."

"Do not permit that to bother you in the least. I was never going to
recall it."

"Was it so unpleasant?"

"On the contrary, I was much amused."

"I did not tell you the truth."

"So I have found out."

"I do not believe that it was you," impulsively.

"Thanks. I had nothing to do with Miss Harrigan's imprisonment."

"Do you feel that you could make a confidant of me?"

He smiled. "My dear Miss Fournier, I have come to the place where I
distrust even myself."

"Forgive my curiosity!"

Courtlandt held out his cup to Rao. "I am glad to see you again."

"Ah, Sahib!"

The little Frenchwoman was torn with curiosity and repression. She wanted
to know what causes had produced this unusual drama which was unfolding
before her eyes. To be presented with effects which had no apparent causes
was maddening. It was not dissimilar to being taken to the second act of a
modern problem play and being forced to leave before the curtain rose upon
the third act. She had laid all the traps her intelligent mind could
invent; and Nora had calmly walked over them or around. Nora's mind was
Celtic: French in its adroitness and Irish in its watchfulness and
tenacity. And now she had set her arts of persuasion in motion (aided by a
piquant beauty) to lift a corner of the veil from this man's heart.
Checkmate!

"I should like to help you," she said, truthfully.

"In what way?"

It was useless, but she continued: "She does not know that you went to
Flora Desimone's that night."

"And yet she sent you to watch me."

"But so many things happened afterward that she evidently forgot."

"That is possible."

"I was asleep when the pistol went off. Oh, you must believe that it was
purely accidental! She was in a terrible state until morning. What if she
had killed you, what if she had killed you! She seemed to hark upon that
phrase."

Courtlandt turned a sober face toward her. She might be sincere, and then
again she might be playing the first game over again, in a different
guise. "It would have been embarrassing if the bullet had found its mark."
He met her eyes squarely, and she saw that his were totally free from
surprise or agitation or interest.

"Do you play chess?" she asked, divertingly.

"Chess? I am very fond of that game."

"So I should judge," dryly. "I suppose you look upon me as a meddler.
Perhaps I am; but I have nothing but good will toward you; and Nora would
be very angry if she knew that I was discussing her affairs with you. But
I love her and want to make her happy."

"That seems to be the ambition of all the young men, at any rate."

Jealousy? But the smile baffled her. "Will you be here long?"

"It depends."

"Upon Nora?" persistently.

"The weather."

"You are hopeless."

"No; on the contrary, I am the most optimistic man in the world."

She looked into this reply very carefully. If he had hopes of winning Nora
Harrigan, optimistic he certainly must be. Perhaps it was not optimism.
Rather might it not be a purpose made of steel, bendable but not
breakable, reinforced by a knowledge of conditions which she would have
given worlds to learn?

"Is she not beautiful?"

"I am not a poet."

"Wait a moment," her eyes widening. "I believe you know who did commit
that outrage."

For the first time he frowned.

"Very well; I promise not to ask any more questions."

"That would be very agreeable to me." Then, as if he realized the rudeness
of his reply, he added: "Before I leave I will tell you all you wish to
know, upon one condition."

"Tell it!"

"You will say nothing to any one, you will question neither Miss Harrigan
nor myself, nor permit yourself to be questioned."

"I agree."

"And now, will you not take me over to your friends?"

"Over there?" aghast.

"Why, yes. We can sit upon the grass. They seem to be having a good
time."

What a man! Take him over, into the enemy's camp? Nothing would be more
agreeable to her. Who would be the stronger, Nora or this provoking man?

So they crossed over and joined the group. The padre smiled. It was a
situation such as he loved to study: a strong man and a strong woman, at
war. But nothing happened; not a ripple anywhere to disclose the agitation
beneath. The man laughed and the woman laughed, but they spoke not to each
other, nor looked once into each other's eyes.

The sun was dropping toward the western tops. The guests were leaving by
twos and threes. The colonel had prevailed upon his dinner-guests not to
bother about going back to the village to dress, but to dine in the
clothes they wore. Finally, none remained but Harrigan, Abbott, the
Barone, the padre and Courtlandt. And they talked noisily and agreeably
concerning man-affairs until Rao gravely announced that dinner was
served.

It was only then, during the lull which followed, that light was shed upon
the puzzle which had been subconsciously stirring Harrigan's mind: Nora
had not once spoken to the son of his old friend.

CHAPTER XIII

EVERYTHING BUT THE TRUTH

"I don't see why the colonel didn't invite some of the ladies," Mrs.
Harrigan complained.

"It's a man-party. He's giving it to please himself. And I do not blame
him. The women about here treat him abominably. They come at all times of
the day and night, use his card-room, order his servants about, drink his
whisky and smoke his cigarettes, and generally invite themselves to
luncheon and tea and dinner. And then, when they are ready to go back to
their villas or hotel, take his motor-boat without a thank-you. The
colonel has about three thousand pounds outside his half-pay, and they are
all crazy to marry him because his sister is a countess. As a bachelor he
can live like a prince, but as a married man he would have to dig. He told
me that if he had been born Adam, he'd have climbed over Eden's walls long
before the Angel of the Flaming Sword paddled him out. Says he's always
going to be a bachelor, unless I take pity on him," mischievously.

"Has he...?" in horrified tones.

"About three times a visit," Nora admitted; "but I told him that I'd be a
daughter, a cousin, or a niece to him, or even a grandchild. The latter
presented too many complications, so we compromised on niece."

"I wish I knew when you were serious and when you were fooling."

"I am often as serious when I am fooling as I am foolish when I am
serious...."

"Nora, you will have me shrieking in a minute!" despaired the mother. "Did
the colonel really propose to you?"

"Only in fun."

Celeste laughed and threw her arm around the mother's waist, less ample
than substantial. "Don't you care! Nora is being pursued by little devils
and is venting her spite on us."

"There'll be too much Burgundy and tobacco, to say nothing of the awful
stories."

"With the good old padre there? Hardly," said Nora.

Celeste was a French woman. "I confess that I like a good story that isn't
vulgar. And none of them look like men who would stoop to vulgarity."

"That's about all you know of men," declared Mrs. Harrigan.

"I am willing to give them the benefit of a doubt."

"Celeste," cried Nora, gaily, "I've an idea. Supposing you and I run back
after dinner and hide in the card-room, which is right across from the
dining-room? Then we can judge for ourselves."

"Nora Harrigan!"

"Molly Harrigan!" mimicked the incorrigible. "Mother mine, you must learn
to recognize a jest."

"Ah, but yours!"

"Fine!" cried Celeste.

As if to put a final period to the discussion, Nora began to hum audibly
an aria from _Aïda_.

They engaged a carriage in the village and were driven up to the villa. On
the way Mrs. Harrigan discussed the stranger, Edward Courtlandt. What a
fine-looking young man he was, and how adventurous, how well-connected,
how enormously rich, and what an excellent catch! She and Celeste--the one
innocently and the other provocatively--continued the subject to the very
doors of the villa. All the while Nora hummed softly.

"What do you think of him, Nora?" the mother inquired.

"Think of whom?"

"This Mr. Courtlandt."

"Oh, I didn't pay much attention to him," carelessly. But once alone with
Celeste, she seized her by the arm, a little roughly. "Celeste, I love you
better than any outsider I know. But if you ever discuss that man in my
presence again, I shall cease to regard you even as an acquaintance. He
has come here for the purpose of annoying me, though he promised the
prefect in Paris never to annoy me again."

"The prefect!"

"Yes. The morning I left Versailles I met him in the private office of the
prefect. He had powerful friends who aided him in establishing an alibi. I
was only a woman, so I didn't count."

"Nora, if I have meddled in any way," proudly, "it has been because I love
you, and I see you unhappy. You have nearly killed me with your
sphinx-like actions. You have never asked me the result of my spying for
you that night. Spying is not one of my usual vocations, but I did it
gladly for you."

"You gave him my address?" coldly.

"I did not. I convinced him that I had come at the behest of Flora
Desimone. He demanded her address, which I gave him. If ever there was a
man in a fine rage, it was he as he left me to go there. If he found out
where we lived, the Calabrian assisted him, I spoke to him rather plainly
at tea. He said that he had had nothing whatever to do with the abduction,
and I believe him. I am positive that he is not the kind of man to go that
far and not proceed to the end. And now, will you please tell Carlos to
bring my dinner to my room?"

The impulsive Irish heart was not to be resisted. Nora wanted to remain
firm, but instead she swept Celeste into her arms. "Celeste, don't be
angry! I am very, very unhappy."

If the Irish heart was impulsive, the French one was no less so. Celeste
wanted to cry out that she was unhappy, too.

"Don't bother to dress! Just give your hair a pat or two. We'll all three
dine on the balcony."

Celeste flew to her room. Nora went over to the casement window and stared
at the darkening mountains. When she turned toward the dresser she was
astonished to find two bouquets. One was an enormous bunch of violets. The
other was of simple marguerites. She picked up the violets. There was a
card without a name; but the phrase scribbled across the face of it was
sufficient. She flung the violets far down into the grape-vines below. The
action was without anger, excited rather by a contemptuous indifference.
As for the simple marguerites, she took them up gingerly. The arc these
described through the air was even greater than that performed by the
violets.

"I'm a silly fool, I suppose," she murmured, turning back into the room
again.

It was ten o'clock when the colonel bade his guests good night as they
tumbled out of his motor-boat. They were in more or less exuberant
spirits; for the colonel knew how to do two things particularly well:
order a dinner, and avoid the many traps set for him by scheming mamas and
eligible widows. Abbott, the Barone and Harrigan, arm in arm, marched on
ahead, whistling one tune in three different keys, while Courtlandt set
the pace for the padre.

All through the dinner the padre had watched and listened. Faces were
generally books to him, and he read in this young man's face many things
that pleased him. This was no night rover, a fool over wine and women, a
spendthrift. He straightened out the lines and angles in a man's face as a
skilled mathematician elucidates an intricate geometrical problem. He had
arrived at the basic knowledge that men who live mostly out of doors are
not volatile and irresponsible, but are more inclined to reserve, to
reticence, to a philosophy which is broad and comprehensive and generous.
They are generally men who are accomplishing things, and who let other
people tell about it. Thus, the padre liked Courtlandt's voice, his
engaging smile, his frank unwavering eyes; and he liked the leanness about
the jaws, which was indicative of strength of character. In fact, he
experienced a singular jubilation as he walked beside this silent man.

"There has been a grave mistake somewhere," he mused aloud, thoughtfully.

"I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt.

"I beg yours. I was thinking aloud. How long have you known the
Harrigans?"

"The father and mother I never saw before to-day."

"Then you have met Miss Harrigan?"

"I have seen her on the stage."

"I have the happiness of being her confessor."

They proceeded quite as far as a hundred yards before Courtlandt
volunteered: "That must be interesting."

"She is a good Catholic."

"Ah, yes; I recollect now."

"And you?"

"Oh, I haven't any religion such as requires my presence in churches.
Don't misunderstand me! As a boy I was bred in the Episcopal Church; but I
have traveled so much that I have drifted out of the circle. I find that
when I am out in the open, in the heart of some great waste, such as a
desert, a sea, the top of a mountain, I can see the greatness of the
Omnipotent far more clearly and humbly than within the walls of a
cathedral."

"But God imposes obligations upon mankind. We have ceased to look upon the
hermit as a holy man, but rather as one devoid of courage. It is not the
stone and the stained windows; it is the text of our daily work, that the
physical being of the Church represents."

"I have not avoided any of my obligations." Courtlandt shifted his stick
behind his back. "I was speaking of the church and the open field, as they
impressed me."

"You believe in the tenets of Christianity?"

"Surely! A man must pin his faith and hope to something more stable than
humanity."

"I should like to convert you to my way of thinking," simply.

"Nothing is impossible. Who knows?"

The padre, as they continued onward, offered many openings, but the young
man at his side refused to be drawn into any confidence. So the padre gave
up, for the futility of his efforts became irksome. His own lips were
sealed, so he could not ask point-blank the question that clamored at the
tip of his tongue.

"So you are Miss Harrigan's confessor?"

"Does it strike you strangely?"

"Merely the coincidence."

"If I were not her confessor I should take the liberty of asking you some
questions."

"It is quite possible that I should decline to answer them."

The padre shrugged. "It is patent to me that you will go about this affair
in your own way. I wish you well."

"Thank you. As Miss Harrigan's confessor you doubtless know everything but
the truth."

The padre laughed this time. The shops were closed. The open restaurants
by the water-front held but few idlers. The padre admired the young man's
independence. Most men would have hesitated not a second to pour the tale
into his ears in hope of material assistance. The padre's admiration was
equally proportioned with respect.

"I leave you here," he said. "You will see me frequently at the villa."

"I certainly shall be there frequently. Good night."

Courtlandt quickened his pace which soon brought him alongside the others.
They stopped in front of Abbott's pension, and he tried to persuade them
to come up for a nightcap.

"Nothing to it, my boy," said Harrigan. "I need no nightcap on top of
cognac forty-eight years old. For me that's a whole suit of pajamas."

"You come, Ted."

"Abbey, I wouldn't climb those stairs for a bottle of Horace's Falernian,
served on Seneca's famous citron table."

"Not a friend in the world," Abbott lamented.

Laughingly they hustled him into the hallway and fled. Then Courtlandt
went his way alone. He slept with the dubious satisfaction that the first
day had not gone badly. The wedge had been entered. It remained to be seen
if it could be dislodged.

Harrigan was in a happy temper. He kissed his wife and chucked Nora under
the chin. And then Mrs. Harrigan launched the thunderbolt which, having
been held on the leash for several hours, had, for all of that, lost none
of its ability to blight and scorch.

"James, you are about as hopeless a man as ever was born. You all but
disgraced us this afternoon."

"Mother!"

"Me?" cried the bewildered Harrigan.

"Look at those tennis shoes; one white string and one brown one. It's
enough to drive a woman mad. What in heaven's name made you come?"

Perhaps it was the after effect of a good dinner, that dwindling away of
pleasant emotions; perhaps it was the very triviality of the offense for
which he was thus suddenly arraigned; at any rate, he lost his temper, and
he was rather formidable when that occurred.

"Damn it, Molly, I wasn't going, but Courtlandt asked me to go with him,
and I never thought of my shoes. You are always finding fault with me
these days. I don't drink, I don't gamble, I don't run around after other
women; I never did. But since you've got this social bug in your bonnet,
you keep me on hooks all the while. Nobody noticed the shoe-strings; and
they would have looked upon it as a joke if they had. After all, I'm the
boss of this ranch. If I want to wear a white string and a black one, I'll
do it. Here!" He caught up the book on social usages and threw it out of
the window. "Don't ever shove a thing like that under my nose again. If
you do, I'll hike back to little old New York and start the gym again."

He rammed one of the colonel's perfectos (which he had been saving for the
morrow) between his teeth, and stalked into the garden.

Nora was heartless enough to laugh.

"He hasn't talked like that to me in years!" Mrs. Harrigan did not know
what to do,--follow him or weep. She took the middle course, and went to
bed.

Nora turned out the lights and sat out on the little balcony. The
moonshine was glorious. So dense was the earth-blackness that the few
lights twinkling here and there were more like fallen stars. Presently she
heard a sound. It was her father, returning as silently as he could. She
heard him fumble among the knickknacks on the mantel, and then go away
again. By and by she saw a spot of white light move hither and thither
among the grape arbors. For five or six minutes she watched it dance.
Suddenly all became dark again. She laid her head upon the railing and
conned over the day's events. These were not at all satisfactory to her.
Then her thoughts traveled many miles away. Six months of happiness, of
romance, of play, and then misery and blackness.

"Nora, are you there?"

"Yes. Over here on the balcony. What were you doing down there?"

"Oh, Nora, I'm sorry I lost my temper. But Molly's begun to nag me lately,
and I can't stand it. I went after that book. Did you throw some flowers
out of the window?"

"Yes."

"A bunch of daisies?"

"Marguerites," she corrected.

"All the same to me. I picked up the bunch, and look at what I found
inside."

He extended his palm, flooding it with the light of his pocket-lamp.
Nora's heart tightened. What she saw was a beautiful uncut emerald.

CHAPTER XIV

A COMEDY WITH MUSIC

The Harrigans occupied the suite in the east wing of the villa. This
consisted of a large drawing-room and two ample bedchambers, with
window-balconies and a private veranda in the rear, looking off toward the
green of the pines and the metal-like luster of the copper beeches. Always
the suite was referred to by the management as having once been tenanted
by the empress of Germany. Indeed, tourists were generally and
respectively and impressively shown the suite (provided it was not at the
moment inhabited), and were permitted to peer eagerly about for some sign
of the vanished august presence. But royalty in passing, as with the most
humble of us, leaves nothing behind save the memory of a tip, generous or
otherwise.

It was raining, a fine, soft, blurring Alpine rain, and a blue-grey
monotone prevailed upon the face of the waters and defied all save the
keenest scrutiny to discern where the mountain tops ended and the sky
began. It was a day for indoors, for dreams, good books, and good
fellows.

The old-fashioned photographer would have admired and striven to
perpetuate the group in the drawing-room. In the old days it was quite the
proper thing to snap the family group while they were engaged in some
pleasant pastime, such as spinning, or painting china, or playing the
piano, or reading a volume of poems. No one ever seemed to bother about
the incongruence of the eyes, which were invariably focused at the camera
lens. Here they all were. Mrs. Harrigan was deep in the intricate maze of
the Amelia Ars of Bologna, which, as the initiated know, is a wonderful
lace. By one of the windows sat Nora, winding interminable yards of
lace-hemming from off the willing if aching digits of the Barone, who was
speculating as to what his Neapolitan club friends would say could they
see, by some trick of crystal-gazing, his present occupation. Celeste was
at the piano, playing (_pianissimo_) snatches from the operas, while
Abbott looked on, his elbows propped upon his knees, his chin in his
palms, and a quality of ecstatic content in his eyes. He was in his
working clothes, picturesque if paint-daubed. The morning had been
pleasant enough, but just before luncheon the rain clouds had gathered and
settled down with that suddenness known only in high altitudes.

The ex-gladiator sat on one of those slender mockeries, composed of
gold-leaf and parabolic curves and faded brocade, such as one sees at the
Trianon or upon the stage or in the new home of a new millionaire, and
which, if the true facts be known, the ingenious Louis invented for the
discomfort of his favorites and the folly of future collectors. It creaked
whenever Harrigan sighed, which was often, for he was deeply immersed (and
no better word could be selected to fit his mental condition) in the
baneful book which he had hurled out of the window the night before, only
to retrieve like the good dog that he was. To-day his shoes offered no
loophole to criticism; he had very well attended to that. His tie
harmonized with his shirt and stockings; his suit was of grey tweed; in
fact, he was the glass of fashion and the mold of form, at least for the
present.

"Say, Molly, I don't see what difference it makes."

"Difference what makes, James?" Mrs. Harrigan raised her eyes from her
work. James had been so well-behaved that morning it was only logical for
her to anticipate that he was about to abolish at one fell stroke all his
hard-earned merits.

"About eating salads. We never used to put oil on our tomatoes. Sugar and
vinegar were good enough."

"Sugar and vinegar are not nourishing; olive-oil is."

"We seemed to hike along all right before we learned that." His guardian
angel was alert this time, and he returned to his delving without further
comment. By and by he got up. "Pshaw!" He dropped the wearisome volume on
the reading-table, took up a paper-covered novel, and turned to the last
fight of the blacksmith in _Rodney Stone_. Here was something that made
the invention of type excusable, even commendable.

"Play the fourth _ballade_," urged Abbott.

Celeste was really a great artist. As an interpreter of Chopin she had no
rival among women, and only one man was her equal. She had fire,
tenderness, passion, strength; she had beyond all these, soul, which is
worth more in true expression than the most marvelous technique. She had
chosen Chopin for his brilliance, as some will chose Turner in preference
to Corot: riots of color, barbaric and tingling. She was as great a genius
in her way as Nora was in hers. There was something of the elfin child in
her spirit. Whenever she played to Abbott, there was a quality in the
expression that awakened a wonderment in Nora's heart.

As Celeste began the _andante_, Nora signified to the Barone to drop his
work. She let her own hands fall. Harrigan gently closed his book, for in
that rough kindly soul of his lay a mighty love of music. He himself was
without expression of any sort, and somehow music seemed to stir the dim
and not quite understandable longing for utterance. Mrs. Harrigan alone
went on with her work; she could work and listen at the same time. After
the magnificent finale, nothing in the room stirred but her needle.

"Bravo!" cried the Barone, breaking the spell.

"You never played that better," declared Nora.

Celeste, to escape the keen inquiry of her friend and to cover up her
embarrassment, dashed into one of the lighter compositions, a waltz. It
was a favorite of Nora's. She rose and went over to the piano and rested a
hand upon Celeste's shoulder. And presently her voice took up the melody.
Mrs. Harrigan dropped her needle. It was not that she was particularly
fond of music, but there was something in Nora's singing that cast a
temporary spell of enchantment over her, rendering her speechless and
motionless. She was not of an analytical turn of mind; thus, the truth
escaped her. She was really lost in admiration of herself: she had
produced this marvelous being!

"That's some!" Harrigan beat his hands together thunderously. "Great
stuff; eh, Barone?"

The Barone raised his hands as if to express his utter inability to
describe his sensations. His elation was that ascribed to those fortunate
mortals whom the gods lifted to Olympus. At his feet lay the lace-hemming,
hopelessly snarled.

"Father, father!" remonstrated Nora; "you will wake up all the old ladies
who are having their siesta."

"Bah! I'll bet a doughnut their ears are glued to their doors. What ho!
Somebody's at the portcullis. Probably the padre, come up for tea."

He was at the door instantly. He flung it open heartily. It was
characteristic of the man to open everything widely, his heart, his mind,
his hate or his affection.

"Come in, come in! Just in time for the matinée concert."

The padre was not alone. Courtlandt followed him in.

[Illustration: Courtlandt followed him in.]

"We have been standing in the corridor for ten minutes," affirmed the
padre, sending a winning smile around the room. "Mr. Courtlandt was for
going down to the bureau and sending up our cards. But I would not hear of
such formality. I am a privileged person."

"Sure yes! Molly, ring for tea, and tell 'em to make it hot. How about a
little peg, as the colonel says?"

The two men declined.

How easily and nonchalantly the man stood there by the door as Harrigan
took his hat! Celeste was aquiver with excitement. She was thoroughly a
woman: she wanted something to happen, dramatically, romantically.

But her want was a vain one. The man smiled quizzically at Nora, who
acknowledged the salutation by a curtsy which would have frightened away
the banshees of her childhood. Nora hated scenes, and Courtlandt had the
advantage of her in his knowledge of this. Celeste remained at the piano,
but Nora turned as if to move away.

"No, no!" cried the padre, his palms extended in protest. "If you stop the
music I shall leave instantly."

"But we are all through, Padre," replied Nora, pinching Celeste's arm,
which action the latter readily understood as a command to leave the
piano.

Celeste, however, had a perverse streak in her to-day. Instead of rising
as Nora expected she would, she wheeled on the stool and began _Morning
Mood_ from Peer Gynt, because the padre preferred Grieg or Beethoven to
Chopin. Nora frowned at the pretty head below her. She stooped.

"I sha'n't forgive you for this trick," she whispered.

Celeste shrugged, and her fingers did not falter. So Nora moved away this
time in earnest.

"No, you must sing. That is what I came up for," insisted the padre. If
there was any malice in the churchman, it was of a negative quality. But
it was in his Latin blood that drama should appeal to him strongly, and
here was an unusual phase in The Great Play. He had urged Courtlandt, much
against the latter's will this day, to come up with him, simply that he
might set a little scene such as this promised to be and study it from the
vantage of the prompter. He knew that the principal theme of all great
books, of all great dramas, was antagonism, antagonism between man and
woman, though by a thousand other names has it been called. He had often
said, in a spirit of raillery, that this antagonism was principally due to
the fact that Eve had been constructed (and very well) out of a rib from
Adam. Naturally she resented this, that she had not been fashioned
independently, and would hold it against man until the true secret of the
parable was made clear to her.

"Sing that, Padre?" said Nora. "Why, there are no words to it that I
know."

"Words? _Peste!_ Who cares for words no one really ever understands? It is
the voice, my child. Go on, or I shall make you do some frightful
penance."

Nora saw that further opposition would be useless. After all, it would be
better to sing. She would not be compelled to look at this man she so
despised. For a moment her tones were not quite clear; but Celeste
increased the volume of sound warningly, and as this required more force
on Nora's part, the little cross-current was passed without mishap. It was
mere pastime for her to follow these wonderful melodies. She had no words
to recall so that her voice was free to do with as she elected. There were
bars absolutely impossible to follow, note for note, but she got around
this difficulty by taking the key and holding it strongly and evenly. In
ordinary times Nora never refused to sing for her guests, if she happened
to be in voice. There was none of that conceited arrogance behind which
most of the vocal celebrities hide themselves. At the beginning she had
intended to sing badly; but as the music proceeded, she sang as she had
not sung in weeks. To fill this man's soul with a hunger for the sound of
her voice, to pour into his heart a fresh knowledge of what he had lost
forever and forever!

Courtlandt sat on the divan beside Harrigan who, with that friendly spirit
which he observed toward all whom he liked, whether of long or short
acquaintance, had thrown his arm across Courtlandt's shoulder. The younger
man understood all that lay behind the simple gesture, and he was secretly
pleased.

But Mrs. Harrigan was not. She was openly displeased, and in vain she
tried to catch the eye of her wayward lord. A man he had known but
twenty-four hours, and to greet him with such coarse familiarity!

Celeste was not wholly unmerciful. She did not finish the suite, but
turned from the keys after the final chords of _Morning Mood_.

"Thank you!" said Nora.

"Do not stop," begged Courtlandt.

Nora looked directly into his eyes as she replied: "One's voice can not go
on forever, and mine is not at all strong."

And thus, without having originally the least intent to do so, they broke
the mutual contract on which they had separately and secretly agreed:
never to speak directly to each other. Nora was first to realize what she
had done, and she was furiously angry with herself. She left the piano.

As if her mind had opened suddenly like a book, Courtlandt sprang from the
divan and reached for the fat ball of lace-hemming. He sat down in Nora's
chair and nodded significantly to the Barone, who blushed. To hold the
delicate material for Nora's unwinding was a privilege of the gods, but to
hold it for this man for whom he held a dim feeling of antagonism was
altogether a different matter.

"It is horribly tangled," he admitted, hoping thus to escape.

"No matter. You hold the ball. I'll untangle it. I never saw a fish-line I
could not straighten out."

Nora laughed. It was not possible for her to repress the sound. Her sense
of humor was too strong in this case to be denied its release in laughter.
It was free of the subtler emotions; frank merriment, no more, no less.
And possessing the hunter's extraordinarily keen ear, Courtlandt
recognized the quality; and the weight of a thousand worlds lightened its
pressure upon his heart. And the Barone laughed, too. So there they were,
the three of them. But Nora's ineffectual battle for repression had driven
her near to hysteria. To escape this dire calamity, she flung open a
casement window and stood within it, breathing in the heavy fragrance of
the rain-laden air.

This little comedy had the effect of relaxing them all; and the laughter
became general. Abbott's smile faded soonest. He stared at his friend in
wonder not wholly free from a sense of evil fortune. Never had he known
Courtlandt to aspire to be a squire of dames. To see the Barone hold the
ball as if it were hot shot was amusing; but the cool imperturbable manner
with which Courtlandt proceeded to untangle the snarl was disturbing. Why
the deuce wasn't he himself big and strong, silent and purposeful, instead
of being a dawdling fool of an artist?

No answer came to his inquiry, but there was a knock at the door. The
managing director handed Harrigan a card.

"Herr Rosen," he read aloud. "Send him up. Some friend of yours, Nora;
Herr Rosen. I told Mr. Jilli to send him up."

The padre drew his feet under his cassock, a sign of perturbation;
Courtlandt continued to unwind; the Barone glanced fiercely at Nora, who
smiled enigmatically.

CHAPTER XV

HERR ROSEN'S REGRETS

Herr Rosen! There was no outward reason why the name should have set a
chill on them all, turned them into expectant statues. Yet, all semblance
of good-fellowship was instantly gone. To Mrs. Harrigan alone did the name
convey a sense of responsibility, a flutter of apprehension not unmixed
with delight. She put her own work behind the piano lid, swooped down upon
the two men and snatched away the lace-hemming, to the infinite relief of
the one and the surprise of the other. Courtlandt would have liked nothing
better than to hold the lace in his lap, for it was possible that Herr
Rosen might wish to shake hands, however disinclined he might be within to
perform such greeting. The lace disappeared. Mrs. Harrigan smoothed out
the wrinkles in her dress. From the others there had been little movement
and no sound to speak of. Harrigan still waited by the door, seriously
contemplating the bit of pasteboard in his hand.

Nora did not want to look, but curiosity drew her eyes imperiously toward
Courtlandt. He had not risen. Did he know? Did he understand? Was his
attitude pretense or innocence? Ah, if she could but look behind that
impenetrable mask! How she hated him! The effrontery of it all! And she
could do nothing, say nothing: dared not tell them then and there what he
truly was, a despicable scoundrel! The son of her father's dearest friend;
what mockery! A friend of the family! It was maddening.

Herr Rosen brushed past Harrigan unceremoniously, without pausing, and
went straight over to Nora, who was thereupon seized by an uncontrollable
spirit of devilment. She hated Herr Rosen, but she was going to be as
pleasant and as engaging as she knew how to be. She did not care if he
misinterpreted her mood. She welcomed him with a hand. He went on to Mrs.
Harrigan, who colored pleasurably. He was then introduced, and he
acknowledged each introduction with a careless nod. He was there to see
Nora, and he did not propose to put himself to any inconvenience on
account of the others.

The temporary restraint which had settled upon the others at the
announcement of Herr Rosen's arrival passed away. Courtlandt, who had
remained seated during the initial formalities (a fact which bewildered
Abbott, who knew how punctilious his friend was in matters of this kind)
got up and took a third of the divan.

Harrigan dropped down beside him. It was his habit to watch his daughter's
face when any guest arrived. He formed his impression on what he believed
to be hers. That she was a consummate actress never entered into his
calculations. The welcoming smile dissipated any doubts.

"No matter where we are, they keep coming. She has as many friends as T.
R. I never bother to keep track of 'em."

"It would be rather difficult," assented Courtlandt.

"You ought to see the flowers. Loads of 'em. And say, what do you think?
Every jewel that comes she turns into money and gives to charity. Can you
beat it? Fine joke on the Johnnies. Of course, I mean stones that turn up
anonymously. Those that have cards go back by fast-mail. It's a good thing
I don't chance across the senders. Now, boy, I want you to feel at home
here in this family; I want you to come up when you want to and at any old
time of day. I kind of want to pay back to you all the kind things your
dad did for me. And I don't want any Oh-pshawing. Get me?"

"Whatever you say. If my dad did you any favors it was because he liked
and admired you; not with any idea of having you discharge the debt in the
future by way of inconveniencing yourself on my account. Just let me be a
friend of the family, like Abbott here. That would be quite enough honor
for me."

"You're on! Say, that blacksmith yarn was a corker. He was a game old
codger. That was scrapping; no hall full of tobacco-smoke, no palm-fans,
lemonade, peanuts and pop-corn; just right out on the turf, and may the
best man win. I know. I went through that. No frame-ups, all square and on
the level. A fellow had to fight those days, no sparring, no pretty
footwork. Sometimes I've a hankering to get back and exchange a wallop or
two. Nothing to it, though. My wife won't let me, as the song goes."

Courtlandt chuckled. "I suppose it's the monotony. A man who has been
active hates to sit down and twiddle his thumbs. You exercise?"

"Walk a lot."

"Climb any?"

"Don't know that game."

"It's great sport. I'll break you in some day, if you say. You'll like it.
The mountains around here are not dangerous. We can go up and down in a
day."

"I'll go you. But, say, last night Nora chucked a bunch of daisies out of
the window, and as I was nosing around in the vineyard, I came across it.
You know how a chap will absently pick a bunch of flowers apart. What do
you think I found?"

"A note?"

"This." Harrigan exhibited the emerald. "Who sent it? Where the dickens
did it come from?"

Courtlandt took the stone and examined it carefully. "That's not a bad
stone. Uncut but polished; oriental."

"Oriental, eh? What would you say it was worth?"

"Oh, somewhere between six and seven hundred."

"Suffering shamrocks! A little green pebble like this?"

"Cut and flawless, at that size, it would be worth pounds instead of
dollars."

"Well, what do you think of that? Nora told me to keep it, so I guess I
will."

"Why, yes. If a man sends a thing like this anonymously, he can't possibly
complain. Have it made into a stick pin." Courtlandt returned the stone
which Harrigan pocketed.

"Sometimes I wish Nora'd marry and settle down."

"She is young. You wouldn't have quit the game at her age!"

"I should say not! But that's different. A man's business is to fight for
his grub, whether in an office or in the ring. That's a part of the game.
But a woman ought to have a home, live in it three-fourths of the year,
and bring up good citizens. That's what we are all here for. Molly used to
stay at home, but now it's the social bug, gadding from morning until
night. Ah, here's Carlos with the tea."

Herr Rosen instantly usurped the chair next to Nora, who began to pour the
tea. He had come up from the village prepared for a disagreeable
half-hour. Instead of being greeted with icy glances from stormy eyes, he
encountered such smiles as this adorable creature had never before
bestowed upon him. He was in the clouds. That night at Cadenabbia had
apparently knocked the bottom out of his dream. Women were riddles which
only they themselves could solve for others. For this one woman he was
perfectly ready to throw everything aside. A man lived but once; and he
was a fool who would hold to tinsel in preference to such happiness as he
thought he saw opening out before him. Nora saw, but she did not care.
That in order to reach another she was practising infinite cruelty on this
man (whose one fault lay in that he loved her) did not appeal to her pity.
But her arrow flew wide of the target; at least, there appeared no result
to her archery in malice. Not once had the intended victim looked over to
where she sat. And yet she knew that he must be watching; he could not
possibly avoid it and be human. And when he finally came forward to take
his cup, she leaned toward Herr Rosen.

"You take two lumps?" she asked sweetly. It was only a chance shot, but
she hit on the truth.

"And you remember?" excitedly.

"One lump for mine, please," said Courtlandt, smiling.

She picked up a cube of sugar and dropped it into his cup. She had the air
of one wishing it were poison. The recipient of this good will, with
perfect understanding, returned to the divan, where the padre and Harrigan
were gravely toasting each other with Benedictine.

Nora made no mistake with either Abbott's cup or the Barone's; but the two
men were filled with but one desire, to throw Herr Rosen out of the
window. What had begun as a beautiful day was now becoming black and
uncertain.

The Barone could control every feature save his eyes, and these openly
admitted deep anger. He recollected Herr Rosen well enough. The encounter
over at Cadenabbia was not the first by many. Herr Rosen! His presence in
this room under that name was an insult, and he intended to call the
interloper to account the very first opportunity he found.

Perhaps Celeste, sitting as quiet as a mouse upon the piano-stool, was the
only one who saw these strange currents drifting dangerously about. That
her own heart ached miserably did not prevent her from observing things
with all her usual keenness. Ah, Nora, Nora, who have everything to give
and yet give nothing, why do you play so heartless a game? Why hurt those
who can no more help loving you than the earth can help whirling around
the calm dispassionate sun? Always they turn to you, while I, who have so
much to give, am given nothing! She set down her tea-cup and began the
aria from _La Bohème_.

Nora, without relaxing the false smile, suddenly found emptiness in
everything.

"Sing!" said Herr Rosen.

"I am too tired. Some other time."

He did not press her. Instead, he whispered in his own tongue: "You are
the most adorable woman in the world!"

And Nora turned upon him a pair of eyes blank with astonishment. It was as
though she had been asleep and he had rudely awakened her. His infatuation
blinded him to the truth; he saw in the look a feminine desire to throw
the others off the track as to the sentiment expressed in his whispered
words.

The hour passed tolerably well. Herr Rosen then observed the time, rose
and excused himself. He took the steps leading abruptly down the terrace
to the carriage road. He had come by the other way, the rambling stone
stairs which began at the porter's lodge, back of the villa.

"Padre," whispered Courtlandt, "I am going. Do not follow. I shall explain
to you when we meet again."

The padre signified that he understood. Harrigan protested vigorously, but
smiling and shaking his head, Courtlandt went away.

Nora ran to the window. She could see Herr Rosen striding along, down the
winding road, his head in the air. Presently, from behind a cluster of
mulberries, the figure of another man came into view. He was going at a
dog-trot, his hat settled at an angle that permitted the rain to beat
squarely into his face. The next turn in the road shut them both from
sight. But Nora did not stir.

Herr Rosen stopped and turned.

"You called?"

"Yes." Courtlandt had caught up with him just as Herr Rosen was about to
open the gates. "Just a moment, Herr Rosen," with a hand upon the bars. "I
shall not detain you long."

There was studied insolence in the tones and the gestures which
accompanied them.

"Be brief, if you please."

"My name is Edward Courtlandt, as doubtless you have heard."

"In a large room it is difficult to remember all the introductions."

"Precisely. That is why I take the liberty of recalling it to you, so that
you will not forget it," urbanely.

A pause. Dark patches of water were spreading across their shoulders.
Little rivulets ran down Courtlandt's arm, raised as it was against the
bars.

"I do not see how it may concern me," replied Herr Rosen finally with an
insolence more marked than Courtlandt's.

"In Paris we met one night, at the stage entrance of the Opera, I pushed
you aside, not knowing who you were. You had offered your services; the
door of Miss Harrigan's limousine."

"It was you?" scowling.

"I apologize for that. To-morrow morning you will leave Bellaggio for
Varenna. Somewhere between nine and ten the fast train leaves for Milan."

"Varenna! Milan!"

"Exactly. You speak English as naturally and fluently as if you were born
to the tongue. Thus, you will leave for Milan. What becomes of you after
that is of no consequence to me. Am I making myself clear?"

"_Verdampt!_ Do I believe my ears?" furiously. "Are you telling me to
leave Bellaggio to-morrow morning?"

"As directly as I can."

Herr Rosen's face became as red as his name. He was a brave young man, but
there was danger of an active kind in the blue eyes boring into his own.
If it came to a physical contest, he realized that he would get the worst
of it. He put his hand to his throat; his very impotence was choking him.

"Your Highness...."

"Highness!" Herr Rosen stepped back.

"Yes. Your Highness will readily see the wisdom of my concern for your
hasty departure when I add that I know all about the little house in
Versailles, that my knowledge is shared by the chief of the Parisian
police and the minister of war. If you annoy Miss Harrigan with your
equivocal attentions...."

"_Gott!_ This is too much!"

"Wait! I am stronger than you are. Do not make me force you to hear me to
the end. You have gone about this intrigue like a blackguard, and that I
know your Highness not to be. The matter is, you are young, you have
always had your way, you have not learnt restraint. Your presence here is
an insult to Miss Harrigan, and if she was pleasant to you this afternoon
it was for my benefit. If you do not go, I shall expose you." Courtlandt
opened the gate.

"And if I refuse?"

"Why, in that case, being the American that I am, without any particular
reverence for royalty or nobility, as it is known, I promise to thrash you
soundly to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, in the dining-room, in the
bureau, the drawing-room, wherever I may happen to find you."

Courtlandt turned on his heel and hurried back to the villa. He did not
look over his shoulder. If he had, he might have felt pity for the young
man who leaned heavily against the gate, his burning face pressed upon his
rain-soaked sleeve.

When Courtlandt knocked at the door and was admitted, he apologized. "I
came back for my umbrella."

"Umbrella!" exclaimed the padre. "Why, we had no umbrellas. We came up in
a carriage which is probably waiting for us this very minute by the
porter's lodge."

"Well, I am certainly absent-minded!"

"Absent-minded!" scoffed Abbott. "You never forgot anything in all your
life, unless it was to go to bed. You wanted an excuse to come back."

"Any excuse would be a good one in that case. I think we'd better be
going, Padre. And by the way, Herr Rosen begged me to present his regrets.
He is leaving Bellaggio in the morning."

Nora turned her face once more to the window.

CHAPTER XVI

THE APPLE OF DISCORD

"It is all very petty, my child," said the padre. "Life is made up of
bigger things; the little ones should be ignored."

To which Nora replied: "To a woman, the little things are everything; they
are the daily routine, the expected, the necessary things. What you call
the big things in life are accidents. And, oh! I have pride." She folded
her arms across her heaving bosom; for the padre's directness this morning
had stirred her deeply.

"Wilfulness is called pride by some; and stubbornness. But you know, as
well as I do, that yours is resentment, anger, indignation. Yes, you have
pride, but it has not been brought into this affair. Pride is that within
which prevents us from doing mean or sordid acts; and you could not do one
or the other if you tried. The sentiment in you which should be
developed...."

"Is mercy?"

"No; justice, the patience to weigh the right or wrong of a thing."

"Padre, I have eyes, eyes; I _saw_."

He twirled the middle button of his cassock. "The eyes see and the ears
hear, but these are only witnesses, laying the matter before the court of
the last resort, which is the mind. It is there we sift the evidence."

"He had the insufferable insolence to order Herr Rosen to leave," going
around the barrier of his well-ordered logic.

"Ah! Now, how could he send away Herr Rosen if that gentleman had really
preferred to stay?"

Nora looked confused.

"Shall I tell you? I suspected; so I questioned him last night. Had I been
in his place, I should have chastised Herr Rosen instead of bidding him be
gone. It was he."

Nora, sat down.

"Positively. The men who guarded you were two actors from one of the
theaters. He did not come to Versailles because he was being watched. He
was found and sent home the night before your release."

"I am sorry. But it was so like _him_."

The padre spread his hands. "What a way women have of modifying either
good or bad impulses! It would have been fine of you to have stopped when
you said you were sorry."

"Padre, one would believe that you had taken up his defense!"

"If I had I should have to leave it after to-day. I return to Rome
to-morrow and shall not see you again before you go to America. I have
bidden good-by to all save you. My child, my last admonition is, be
patient; observe; guard against that impulse born in your blood to move
hastily, to form opinions without solid foundations. Be happy while you
are young, for old age is happy only in that reflected happiness of
recollection. Write to me, here. I return in November. _Benedicite?_"
smiling.

Nora bowed her head and he put a hand upon it.

"And listen to this," began Harrigan, turning over a page. "'It is
considered bad form to call the butler to your side when you are a guest.
Catch his eye. He will understand that something is wanted.' How's that?"

"That's the way to live." Courtlandt grinned, and tilted back his chair
until it rested against the oak.

The morning was clear and mild. Fresh snow lay upon the mountain tops;
later it would disappear. The fountain tinkled, and swallows darted hither
and thither under the sparkling spray. The gardeners below in the
vegetable patch were singing. By the door of the villa sat two old ladies,
breakfasting in the sunshine. There was a hint of lavender in the lazy
drifting air. A dozen yards away sat Abbott, two or three brushes between
his teeth and one in his hand. A little behind was Celeste, sewing posies
upon one of those squares of linen toward which all women in their idle
moments are inclined, and which, on finishing, they immediately stow away
in the bottom of some trunk against the day when they have a home of their
own, or marry, or find some one ignorant enough to accept it as a gift.

"'And when in doubt,'" continued Harrigan, "'watch how other persons use
their forks.' Can you beat it? And say, honest, Molly bought that for me
to read and study. And I never piped the subtitle until this morning.
'Advice to young ladies upon going into society.' Huh?" Harrigan slapped
his knee with the book and roared out his keen enjoyment. Somehow he
seemed to be more at ease with this young fellow than with any other man
he had met in years. "But for the love of Mike, don't say anything to
Molly," fearfully. "Oh, she means the best in the world," contritely. "I'm
always embarrassing her; shoe-strings that don't match, a busted stud in
my shirt-front, and there isn't a pair of white-kids made that'll stay
whole more than five minutes on these paws. I suppose it's because I don't
think. After all, I'm only a retired pug." The old fellow's eyes sparkled
suspiciously. "The best two women in all the world, and I don't want them
to be ashamed of me."

"Why, Mr. Harrigan," said Courtlandt, letting his chair fall into place so
that he could lay a hand affectionately upon the other's knee, "neither of
them would be worth their salt if they ever felt ashamed of you. What do
you care what strangers think or say? You know. You've seen life. You've
stepped off the stage and carried with you the recollection of decent
living, of playing square, of doing the best you could. The worst
scoundrels I ever met never made any mistake with their forks. Perhaps you
don't know it, but my father became rich because he could judge a man's
worth almost at sight. And he kept this fortune and added to it because he
chose half a dozen friends and refused to enlarge the list. If you became
his friend, he had good reason for making you such."

"Well, we did have some good times together," Harrigan admitted, with a
glow in his heart. "And I guess after all that I'll go to the ball with
Molly. I don't mind teas like we had at the colonel's, but dinners and
balls I have drawn the line at. I'll take the plunge to-night. There's
always some place for a chap to smoke."

"At the Villa Rosa? I'll be there myself; and any time you are in doubt,
don't be afraid to question me."

"You're in class A," heartily. "But there's one thing that worries
me,--Nora. She's gone up so high, and she's such a wonderful girl, that
all the men in Christendom are hiking after her. And some of 'em.... Well,
Molly says it isn't good form to wallop a man over here. Why, she went on
her lonesome to India and Japan, with nobody but her maid; and never put
us hep until she landed in Bombay. The men out that way aren't the best.
East of Suez, you know. And that chap yesterday, Herr Rosen. Did you see
the way he hiked by me when I let him in? He took me to be the round
number before one. And he didn't speak a dozen words to any but Nora. Not
that I mind that; but it was something in the way he did it that scratched
me the wrong way. The man who thinks he's going to get Nora by walking
over me, has got a guess coming. Of course, it's meat and drink to Molly
to have sons of grand dukes and kings trailing around. She says it gives
tone."

"Isn't she afraid sometimes?"

"Afraid? I should say not! There's only three things that Molly's afraid
of these days: a spool of thread, a needle, and a button."

Courtlandt laughed frankly. "I really don't think you need worry about
Herr Rosen. He has gone, and he will not come back."

"Say! I'll bet a dollar it was you who shoo'd him off."

"Yes. But it was undoubtedly an impertinence on my part, and I'd rather
you would not disclose my officiousness to Miss Harrigan."

"Piffle! If you knew him you had a perfect right to pass him back his
ticket. Who was he?"

Courtlandt poked at the gravel with his cane.

"One of the big guns?"

Courtlandt nodded.

"So big that he couldn't have married my girl even if he loved her?"

"Yes. As big as that."

Harrigan riffled the leaves of his book. "What do you say to going down to
the hotel and having a game of _bazzica_, as they call billiards here?"

"Nothing would please me better," said Courtlandt, relieved that Harrigan
did not press him for further revelations.

"Nora is studying a new opera, and Molly-O is ragging the village
dressmaker. It's only half after ten, and we can whack 'em around until
noon. I warn you, I'm something of a shark."

"I'll lay you the cigars that I beat you."

"You're on!"

Harrigan put the book in his pocket, and the two of them made for the
upper path, not, however, without waving a friendly adieu to Celeste, who
was watching them with much curiosity.

For a moment Nora became visible in the window. Her expression did not
signify that the sight of the men together pleased her. On the contrary,
her eyes burned and her brow was ruffled by several wrinkles which
threatened to become permanent if the condition of affairs continued to
remain as it was. To her the calm placidity of the man was nothing less
than monumental impudence. How she hated him; how bitterly, how intensely
she hated him! She withdrew from the window without having been seen.

"Did you ever see two finer specimens of man?" Celeste asked of Abbott.

"What? Who?" mumbled Abbott, whose forehead was puckered with impatience.
"Oh, those two? They _are_ well set up. But what the deuce _is_ the matter
with this foreground?" taking the brushes from his teeth. "I've been
hammering away at it for a week, and it does not get there yet."

Celeste rose and laid aside her work. She stood behind him and studied the
picture through half-closed critical eyes. "You have painted it over too
many times." Then she looked down at the shapely head. Ah, the longing to
put her hands upon it, to run her fingers through the tousled hair, to
touch it with her lips! But no! "Perhaps you are tired; perhaps you have
worked too hard. Why not put aside your brushes for a week?"

"I've a good mind to chuck it into the lake. I simply can't paint any
more." He flung down the brushes. "I'm a fool, Celeste, a fool. I'm crying
for the moon, that's what the matter is. What's the use of beating about
the bush? You know as well as I do that it's Nora."

Her heart contracted, and for a little while she could not see him
clearly.

"But what earthly chance have I?" he went on, innocently but ruthlessly.
"No one can help loving Nora."

"No," in a small voice.

"It's all rot, this talk about affinities. There's always some poor devil
left outside. But who can help loving Nora?" he repeated.

"Who indeed!"

"And there's not the least chance in the world for me."

"You never can tell until you put it to the test."

"Do you think I have a chance? Is it possible that Nora may care a little
for me?" He turned his head toward her eagerly.

"Who knows?" She wanted him to have it over with, to learn the truth that
to Nora Harrigan he would never be more than an amiable comrade. He would
then have none to turn to but her. What mattered it if her own heart ached
so she might soothe the hurt in his? She laid a hand upon his shoulder, so
lightly that he was only dimly conscious of the contact.

"It's a rummy old world. Here I've gone alone all these years...."

"Twenty-six!" smiling.

"Well, that's a long time. Never bothered my head about a woman. Selfish,
perhaps. Had a good time, came and went as I pleased. And then I met
Nora."

"Yes."

"If only she'd been stand-offish, like these other singers, why, I'd have
been all right to-day. But she's such a brick! She's such a good fellow!
She treats us all alike; sings when we ask her to; always ready for a
romp. Think of her making us all take the _Kneip_-cure the other night!
And we marched around the fountain singing 'Mary had a little lamb.'
Barefooted in the grass! When a man marries he doesn't want a wife half so
much as a good comrade; somebody to slap him on the back in the morning to
hearten him up for the day's work; and to cuddle him up when he comes home
tired, or disappointed, or unsuccessful. No matter what mood he's in. Is
my English getting away from you?"

"No; I understand all you say." Her hand rested a trifle heavier upon his
shoulder, that was all.

"Nora would be that kind of a wife. 'Honor, anger, valor, fire,' as
Stevenson says. Hang the picture; what am I going to do with it?"

"'Honor, anger, valor, fire,'" Celeste repeated slowly. "Yes, that is
Nora." A bitter little smile moved her lips as she recalled the happenings
of the last two days. But no; he must find out for himself; he must meet
the hurt from Nora, not from her. "How long, Abbott, have you known your
friend Mr. Courtlandt?"

"Boys together," playing a light tattoo with his mahl-stick.

"How old is he?"

"About thirty-two or three."

"He is very rich?"

"Oceans of money; throws it away, but not fast enough to get rid of it."

"He is what you say in English ... wild?"

"Well," with mock gravity, "I shouldn't like to be the tiger that crossed
his path. Wild; that's the word for it."

"You are laughing. Ah, I know! I should say dissipated."

"Courtlandt? Come, now, Celeste; does he look dissipated?"

"No-o."

"He drinks when he chooses, he flirts with a pretty woman when he chooses,
he smokes the finest tobacco there is when he chooses; and he gives them
all up when he chooses. He is like the seasons; he comes and goes, and
nobody can change his habits."

"He has had no affair?"

"Why, Courtlandt hasn't any heart. It's a mechanical device to keep his
blood in circulation; that's all. I am the most intimate friend he has,
and yet I know no more than you how he lives and where he goes."

She let her hand fall from his shoulder. She was glad that he did not
know.

"But look!" she cried in warning.

Abbott looked.

A woman was coming serenely down the path from the wooded promontory, a
woman undeniably handsome in a cedar-tinted linen dress, exquisitely
fashioned, with a touch of vivid scarlet on her hat and a most tantalizing
flash of scarlet ankle. It was Flora Desimone, fresh from her morning bath
and a substantial breakfast. The errand that had brought her from
Aix-les-Bains was confessedly a merciful one. But she possessed the
dramatist's instinct to prolong a situation. Thus, to make her act of
mercy seem infinitely larger than it was, she was determined first to cast
the Apple of Discord into this charming corner of Eden. The Apple of
Discord, as every man knows, is the only thing a woman can throw with any
accuracy.

The artist snatched up his brushes, and ruined the painting forthwith, for
all time. The foreground was, in his opinion, beyond redemption; so, with
a savage humor, he rapidly limned in a score of impossible trees, turned
midday into sunset, with a riot of colors which would have made the
Chinese New-year in Canton a drab and sober event in comparison. He hated
Flora Desimone, as all Nora's adherents most properly did, but with a
hatred wholly reflective and adapted to Nora's moods.

"You have spoiled it!" cried Celeste. She had watched the picture grow,
and to see it ruthlessly destroyed this way hurt her. "How could you!"

"Worst I ever did." He began to change the whole effect, chuckling audibly
as he worked. Sunset divided honors with moonlight. It was no longer
incongruous; it was ridiculous. He leaned back and laughed. "I'm going to
send it to L'Asino, and call it an afterthought."

"Give it to me."

"What?"

"Yes."

"Nonsense! I'm going to touch a match to it. I'll give you that picture
with the lavender in bloom."

"I want this."

"But you can not hang it."

"I want it."

"Well!" The more he learned about women the farther out of mental reach
they seemed to go. Why on earth did she want this execrable daub? "You may
have it; but all the same, I'm going to call an oculist and have him
examine your eyes."

"Why, it is the Signorina Fournier!"

In preparing studiously to ignore Flora Desimone's presence they had
forgotten all about her.

"Good morning, Signora," said Celeste in Italian.

"And the Signore Abbott, the painter, also!" The Calabrian raised what she
considered her most deadly weapon, her lorgnette.

Celeste had her fancy-work instantly in her two hands; Abbott's were
occupied; Flora's hands were likewise engaged; thus, the insipid mockery
of hand-shaking was nicely and excusably avoided.

"What is it?" asked Flora, squinting.

"It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning,"
soberly.

"It looks very natural," observed Flora.

"Natural!" Abbott dropped his mahl-stick.

"It is Vesuv', is it not, on a cloudy day?"

This was too much for Abbott's gravity, and he laughed.

"It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," said
Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy
and contemplative like a cat's, and, as every one knows, a cat's eye is
the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since
a cat's attitude toward the world is by need and experience wholly
defensive.

"The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past
helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it
represents an eruption of temper."

Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was
distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She
swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum.

"It is too bad," she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the
villa.

"It was irrevocably lost," Abbott declared.

"No, no; I do not mean the picture. I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice