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.