"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.




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