* * * * * "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."