“You’ll find the claret and champagne punches in the hall,” suggested Courtlandt.
“Not for mine! Run away and dance.”
“Good-by, then.” Courtlandt vanished.
“There’s a fine chap. Edward Courtlandt, the American millionaire.” It was not possible for Harrigan to omit this awe-compelling elaboration.
“Edward Courtlandt.” The stranger stretched his legs. “I have heard of him. Something of a hunter.”
“One of the keenest.”
“There is no half-way with your rich American: either his money ruins him or he runs away from it.”
“There’s a stunner,” exclaimed Harrigan. “Wonder how she got here?”
“To which lady do you refer?”
“The one in scarlet. She is Flora Desimone. She and my daughter sing together sometimes. Of course you have heard of Eleonora da Toscana; that’s my daughter’s stage name. The two are not on very good terms, naturally.”