“Rumpus?”
“The abduction.”
“Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see.”
“No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise, calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of cards, anything.”
The Barone spread his hands. “I comprehend,” hurriedly. He comprehended nothing, but he was too proud to admit it.
“So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called there at the apartment the very day!”
“Ah, if I had been there the right time!”
“But what puts me down for the count is the action of the fellow. Never showed up; just made her miss two performances.”
“He was afraid. Men who do cowardly things are always afraid.” The Barone spoke with decided accent, but he seldom made a grammatical error. “But sometimes, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness. Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale.” The Italian looked down on Como whose broad expanse was crisscrossed by rippled paths made by arriving and departing steamers. “It is not a wonder that some man might want to run away with her.”
Harrigan looked curiously at the other. “Well, it won’t be healthy for any man to try it again.” The father held out his powerful hands for the Barone’s inspection. They called mutely but expressively for the throat of the man who dared. “It’ll never happen again. Her mother and I are not going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I’m going to trail along; when she hits the high note in Paris, I’m lingering near; when she trills in London, I’m hiding in the shadow. And you may put that in your pipe and smoke it.”