Nora crackled the certificate in her fingers and stared unseeingly at it

for some time. "I met him first in Rangoon," she began slowly, without

raising her eyes.

"When you went around the world on your own?"

"Yes. Oh, don't worry. I was always able to take care of myself."

"An Irish idea," answered Harrigan complacently.

"I loved him, father, with all my heart and soul. He was not only big and

strong and handsome, but he was kindly and tender and thoughtful. Why, I

never knew that he was rich until after I had promised to be his wife.

When I learned that he was the Edward Courtlandt who was always getting

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into the newspapers, I laughed. There were stories about his escapades.

There were innuendoes regarding certain women, but I put them out of my

mind as twaddle. Ah, never had I been so happy! In Berlin we went about

like two children. It was play. He brought me to the Opera and took me

away; and we had the most charming little suppers. I never wrote you or

mother because I wished to surprise you."

"You have. Go on."

"I had never paid much attention to Flora Desimone, though I knew that she

was jealous of my success. Several times I caught her looking at Edward in

a way I did not like."

"She looked at him, huh?"

"It was the last performance of the season. We were married that

afternoon. We did not want any one to know about it. I was not to leave

the stage until the end of the following season. We were staying at the

same hotel, with rooms across the corridor. This was much against his

wishes, but I prevailed."

"I see."

"Our rooms were opposite, as I said. After the performance that night I

went to mine to complete the final packing. We were to leave at one for

the Tyrol. Father, I saw Flora Desimone come out of his room."

Harrigan shut and opened his hands.

"Do you understand? I saw her. She was laughing. I did not see him. My

wedding night! She came from his room. My heart stopped, the world

stopped, everything went black. All the stories that I had read and heard

came back. When he knocked at my door I refused to see him. I never saw

him again until that night in Paris when he forced his way into my

apartment."

"Hang it, Nora, this doesn't sound like him!"

"I saw her."

"He wrote you?"

"I returned the letters, unopened."

"That wasn't square. You might have been wrong."

"He wrote five letters. After that he went to India, to Africa and back to

India, where he seemed to find consolation enough."

Harrigan laid it to his lack of normal vision, but to his single optic

there was anything but misery in her beautiful blue eyes. True, they

sparkled with tears; but that signified nothing: he hadn't been married

these thirty-odd years without learning that a woman weeps for any of a

thousand and one reasons.




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