“Well, that’s a long time. Never bothered my head about a woman. Selfish, perhaps. Had a good time, came and went as I pleased. And then I met Nora.”
“Yes.”
“If only she’d been stand-offish, like these other singers, why, I’d have been all right to-day. But she’s such a brick! She’s such a good fellow! She treats us all alike; sings when we ask her to; always ready for a romp. Think of her making us all take the Kneip-cure the other night! And we marched around the fountain singing ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ Barefooted in the grass! When a man marries he doesn’t want a wife half so much as a good comrade; somebody to slap him on the back in the morning to hearten him up for the day’s work; and to cuddle him up when he comes home tired, or disappointed, or unsuccessful. No matter what mood he’s in. Is my English getting away from you?”
“No; I understand all you say.” Her hand rested a trifle heavier upon his shoulder, that was all.
“Nora would be that kind of a wife. ‘Honor, anger, valor, fire,’ as Stevenson says. Hang the picture; what am I going to do with it?”
“‘Honor, anger, valor, fire,’” Celeste repeated slowly. “Yes, that is Nora.” A bitter little smile moved her lips as she recalled the happenings of the last two days. But no; he must find out for himself; he must meet the hurt from Nora, not from her. “How long, Abbott, have you known your friend Mr. Courtlandt?”
“Boys together,” playing a light tattoo with his mahl-stick.
“How old is he?”
“About thirty-two or three.”
“He is very rich?”