“Michael, I do not want to get into a temper. It makes lines in my face. I hate this place. It is dead. I want life, and color, and music. I want the rest of September in Ostend.”
“Paris, Capri, Taormina, Ostend; I marvel if ever you will be content to stay in one place long enough for me to get my breath?”
“My dear, I am young. One of these days I shall be content to sit by your great Russian fireplace and hold your hand.”
“Hold it now.”
She laughed and pressed his hand between her own. “Michael, look me straight in the eyes.” He did so willingly enough. “There is no other man. And if you ever look at another woman ... Well!”
“I’ll send over for the invitation.” He stuffed his pockets with nuts and put on his hat.
Flora then proceeded secretly to polish once more the Apple of Discord which, a deal tarnished for lack of use, she had been compelled to bring down from the promontory.
“Am I all right?” asked Harrigan.
Courtlandt nodded. “You look like a soldier in mufti, and more than that, like the gentleman that you naturally are,” quite sincerely.