“Celeste,” cried Nora, gaily, “I’ve an idea. Supposing you and I run back after dinner and hide in the card-room, which is right across from the dining-room? Then we can judge for ourselves.”
“Nora Harrigan!”
“Molly Harrigan!” mimicked the incorrigible. “Mother mine, you must learn to recognize a jest.”
“Ah, but yours!”
“Fine!” cried Celeste.
As if to put a final period to the discussion, Nora began to hum audibly an aria from Aïda.
They engaged a carriage in the village and were driven up to the villa. On the way Mrs. Harrigan discussed the stranger, Edward Courtlandt. What a fine-looking young man he was, and how adventurous, how well-connected, how enormously rich, and what an excellent catch! She and Celeste—the one innocently and the other provocatively—continued the subject to the very doors of the villa. All the while Nora hummed softly.
“What do you think of him, Nora?” the mother inquired.
“Think of whom?”
“This Mr. Courtlandt.”