"Oh, bother!" Nora's elbow slyly dug into Celeste's side.

The pianist's pretty face was bent over her soup. She had grown accustomed

to these little daily rifts. For the great, patient, clumsy,

happy-go-lucky man she entertained an intense pity. But it was not the

kind that humiliates; on the contrary, it was of a mothering disposition;

and the ex-gladiator dimly recognized it, and felt more comfortable with

her than with any other woman excepting Nora. She understood him perhaps

better than either mother or daughter; he was too late: he belonged to a

distant time, the beginning of the Christian era; and often she pictured

him braving the net and the trident in the saffroned arena.

Mrs. Harrigan broke her bread vexatiously. Her husband refused to think

for himself, and it was wearing on her nerves to watch him day and night.

Deep down under the surface of new adjustments and social ambitions, deep

in the primitive heart, he was still her man. But it was only when he

limped with an occasional twinge of rheumatism, or a tooth ached, or he

dallied with his meals, that the old love-instinct broke up through these

artificial crustations. True, she never knew how often he invented these

trivial ailments, for he soon came into the knowledge that she was less

concerned about him when he was hale and hearty. She still retained

evidences of a blossomy beauty. Abbott had once said truly that nature had

experimented on her; it was in the reproduction that perfection had been

reached. To see the father, the mother, and the daughter together it was

not difficult to fashion a theory as to the latter's splendid health and

physical superiority. Arriving at this point, however, theory began to

fray at the ends. No one could account for the genius and the voice. The

mother often stood lost in wonder that out of an ordinary childhood, a

barelegged, romping, hoydenish childhood, this marvel should emerge:

her's!

She was very ambitious for her daughter. She wanted to see nothing less

than a ducal coronet upon the child's brow, British preferred. If ordinary

chorus girls and vaudeville stars, possessing only passable beauty and no

intelligence whatever, could bring earls into their nets, there was no

reason why Nora could not be a princess or a duchess. So she planned

accordingly. But the child puzzled and eluded her; and from time to time

she discovered a disquieting strength of character behind a disarming

amiability. Ever since Nora had returned home by way of the Orient, the

mother had recognized a subtle change, so subtle that she never had an

opportunity of alluding to it verbally. Perhaps the fault lay at her own

door. She should never have permitted Nora to come abroad alone to fill

her engagements.

But that Nora was to marry a duke was, to her mind, a settled fact. It is

a peculiar phase, this of the humble who find themselves, without effort

of their own, thrust up among the great and the so-called, who forget

whence they came in the fierce contest for supremacy upon that tottering

ledge called society. The cad and the snob are only infrequently

well-born. Mrs. Harrigan was as yet far from being a snob, but it required

some tact upon Nora's part to prevent this dubious accomplishment.




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