“I am sorry.”
“Why, Nora, I didn’t know that your card was filled!” said Mrs. Harrigan. She had the maternal eye upon Courtlandt.
“Nevertheless,” said Nora sweetly, “it is a fact.”
“I am disconsolate,” replied Courtlandt, who had approached for form’s sake only, being fully prepared for a refusal. “I have the unfortunate habit of turning up late,” with a significance which only Nora understood.
“So, those who are late must suffer the consequences.”
“Supper?”
“The Barone rather than you.”
The music began again, and Abbott whirled her away. She was dressed in Burmese taffeta, a rich orange. In the dark of her beautiful black hair there was the green luster of emeralds; an Indian-princess necklace of emeralds and pearls was looped around her dazzling white throat. Unconsciously Courtlandt sighed audibly, and Mrs. Harrigan heard this note of unrest.
“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Harrigan.
“Flora Desimone’s husband, the duke. He and Mr. Harrigan were having quite a conversation in the smoke-room.”