“And what in mercy’s name is the matter with his heart? The doctor at Marienbad said that father was the soundest man of his age he had ever met.” Nora looked quizzically at her father.
He grinned. Out of his own mouth he had been nicely trapped. That morning he had complained of a little twinge in his heart, a childish subterfuge to take Mrs. Harrigan’s attention away from the eternal society page of the Herald. It had succeeded. He had even been cuddled.
“James, you told me...”
“Oh, Molly, I only wanted to talk to you.”
“To do so it isn’t necessary to frighten me to death,” reproachfully. “One cigar, and no more.”
“Molly, what ails you?” as they left the dining-room. “Nora’s right. That sawbones said I was made of iron. I’m only smoking native cigars, and it takes a bunch of ’em to get the taste of tobacco. All right; in a few months you’ll have me with the stuffed canary under the glass top. What’s the name of that book?” diplomatically.
“Social Usages.”
Nora laughed. “But, dad, you really must read it carefully. It will tell you how to talk to a duchess, if you chance to meet one when I am not around. It has all the names of the forks and knives and spoons, and it tells you never to use sugar on your lettuce.” And then she threw her arm around her mother’s waist. “Honey, when you buy books for father, be sure they are by Dumas or Haggard or Doyle. Otherwise he will never read a line.”
“And I try so hard!” Tears came into Mrs. Harrigan’s eyes.