When he had fought what he considered two rattling rounds, Harrigan

conceded that his cravat had once more got the decision over him on

points. And the cravat was only a second-rater, too, a black-silk affair.

He tossed up the sponge and went down to the dining-room, the ends of the

conqueror straggling like the four points of a battered weather-vane. His

wife and daughter and Mademoiselle Fournier were already at their table by

the casement window, from which they could see the changing granite mask

of Napoleon across Lecco.

At the villa there were seldom more than ten or twelve guests, this being

quite the capacity of the little hotel. These generally took refuge here

in order to escape the noise and confusion of a large hotel, to avoid the

necessity of dining in state every night. Few of the men wore evening

dress, save on occasions when they were entertaining. The villa wasn't at

all fashionable, and the run of American tourists fought shy of it,

preferring the music and dancing and card-playing of the famous hostelries

along the water-front. Of course, everybody came up for the view, just as

everybody went up the Corner Grat (by cable) at Zermatt to see the

Matterhorn. But for all its apparent dulness, there, was always an English

duchess, a Russian princess, or a lady from the Faubourg St.-Germain

somewhere about, resting after a strenuous winter along the Riviera. Nora

Harrigan sought it not only because she loved the spot, but because it

sheltered her from idle curiosity. It was almost as if the villa were

hers, and the other people her guests.

Harrigan crossed the room briskly, urged by an appetite as sound as his

views on life. The chef here was a king; there was always something to

look forward to at the dinner hour; some new way of serving spinach, or

lentils, or some irresistible salad. He smiled at every one and pulled out

his chair.

"Sorry to keep you folks waiting."

"James!"

"What's the matter now?" he asked good-naturedly. Never that tone but

something was out of kilter.

His wife glanced wrathfully at his feet. Wonderingly he looked down. In

the heat of the battle with his cravat he had forgotten all about his

tennis shoes.

"I see. No soup for mine." He went back to his room, philosophically.

There was always something wrong when he got into these infernal clothes.

"Mother," said Nora, "why can't you let him be?"

"But white shoes!" in horror.

"Who cares? He's the patientest man I know. We're always nagging him, and

I for one am going to stop. Look about! So few men and women dress for

dinner. You do as you please here, and that is why I like it."

"I shall never be able to do anything with him as long as he sees that his

mistakes are being condoned by you," bitterly responded the mother. "Some

day he will humiliate us all by his carelessness."




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