She was very ambitious for her daughter. She wanted to see nothing less than a ducal coronet upon the child’s brow, British preferred. If ordinary chorus girls and vaudeville stars, possessing only passable beauty and no intelligence whatever, could bring earls into their nets, there was no reason why Nora could not be a princess or a duchess. So she planned accordingly. But the child puzzled and eluded her; and from time to time she discovered a disquieting strength of character behind a disarming amiability. Ever since Nora had returned home by way of the Orient, the mother had recognized a subtle change, so subtle that she never had an opportunity of alluding to it verbally. Perhaps the fault lay at her own door. She should never have permitted Nora to come abroad alone to fill her engagements.
But that Nora was to marry a duke was, to her mind, a settled fact. It is a peculiar phase, this of the humble who find themselves, without effort of their own, thrust up among the great and the so-called, who forget whence they came in the fierce contest for supremacy upon that tottering ledge called society. The cad and the snob are only infrequently well-born. Mrs. Harrigan was as yet far from being a snob, but it required some tact upon Nora’s part to prevent this dubious accomplishment.
“Is Mr. Abbott going with us?” she inquired.
“Donald is sulking,” Nora answered. “For once the Barone got ahead of him in engaging the motor-boat.”
“I wish you would not call him by his first name.”
“And why not? I like him, and he is a very good comrade.”
“You do not call the Barone by his given name.”
“Heavens, no! If I did he would kiss me. These Italians will never understand western customs, mother. I shall never marry an Italian, much as I love Italy.”
“Nor a Frenchman?” asked Celeste.
“Nor a Frenchman.”