“Nothing you could possibly say would interest me,” declared Nora, haughtily and made as if to pass.
“Do not be too sure,” insolently.
Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the exit.
“Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart,” continued Flora. “I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose father....”
“Don’t you dare to say an ill word of him!” cried Nora, her Irish blood throwing hauteur to the winds. “He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the least.”
The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well, for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone’s eyes searched the shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet.
“I hate you and detest you with all my heart.”
“Ah!” said Abbott, facing about. “So it is you. You deliberately scratched off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!”