Courtlandt sat on the divan beside Harrigan who, with that friendly spirit which he observed toward all whom he liked, whether of long or short acquaintance, had thrown his arm across Courtlandt’s shoulder. The younger man understood all that lay behind the simple gesture, and he was secretly pleased.
But Mrs. Harrigan was not. She was openly displeased, and in vain she tried to catch the eye of her wayward lord. A man he had known but twenty-four hours, and to greet him with such coarse familiarity!
Celeste was not wholly unmerciful. She did not finish the suite, but turned from the keys after the final chords of Morning Mood.
“Thank you!” said Nora.
“Do not stop,” begged Courtlandt.
Nora looked directly into his eyes as she replied: “One’s voice can not go on forever, and mine is not at all strong.”
And thus, without having originally the least intent to do so, they broke the mutual contract on which they had separately and secretly agreed: never to speak directly to each other. Nora was first to realize what she had done, and she was furiously angry with herself. She left the piano.
As if her mind had opened suddenly like a book, Courtlandt sprang from the divan and reached for the fat ball of lace-hemming. He sat down in Nora’s chair and nodded significantly to the Barone, who blushed. To hold the delicate material for Nora’s unwinding was a privilege of the gods, but to hold it for this man for whom he held a dim feeling of antagonism was altogether a different matter.
“It is horribly tangled,” he admitted, hoping thus to escape.
“No matter. You hold the ball. I’ll untangle it. I never saw a fish-line I could not straighten out.”