"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.