“Quite naturally,” dryly.
“But you can’t get away from the Calabrian’s beauty,” generously.
“No.” The bearded man extinguished his cigarette and rose, laying a carte-de-visite on the tabouret. “More, I should not care to get away from it. Good evening,” pleasantly. The music stopped. He passed on into the crowd.
Harrigan reached over and picked up the card. “Suffering shamrocks! if Molly could only see me now,” he murmured. “I wonder if I made any breaks? The grand duke, and me hobnobbing with him like a waiter! James, this is all under your hat. We’ll keep the card where Molly won’t find it.”
Young men began to drift in and out. The air became heavy with smoke, the prevailing aroma being that of Turkish tobacco of which Harrigan was not at all fond. But his cigar was so good that he was determined not to stir until the coal began to tickle the end of his nose. Since Molly knew where he was there was no occasion to worry.
Abbott came in, pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, and impatiently struck a match. His hands shook a little, and the flare of the match revealed a pale and angry countenance.
“Hey, Abbott, here’s a seat. Get your second wind.”
“Thanks.” Abbott dropped into the chair and smoked quickly. “Very stuffy out there. Too many.”
“You look it. Having a good time?”
“Oh, fine!” There was a catch in the laugh which followed, but Harrigan’s ear was not trained for these subtleties of sound, “How are you making out?”