Nora was face to face at last with Flora Desimone.

"I wish to speak to you," said the Italian abruptly.

"Nothing you could possibly say would interest me," declared Nora,

haughtily and made as if to pass.

"Do not be too sure," insolently.

Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished

he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the

exit.

"Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart," continued

Flora. "I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose

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father...."

"Don't you dare to say an ill word of him!" cried Nora, her Irish blood

throwing hauteur to the winds. "He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am

proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the

least."

The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was

mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well,

for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone's eyes searched the

shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet.

"Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched

off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible

cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!"

The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to

apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood.

Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly

knocked him down.




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