The colonel nudged the artist.
“There happens to be an attraction in Bellaggio,” said Abbott irritably.
“The moth and the candle,” supplemented the colonel, peering over Courtlandt’s shoulder. “He’s well set up,” grudgingly admitted the old fellow.
“The moth and the candle,” mused Courtlandt. “That will be Nora Harrigan. How long has this infatuation been going on?”
“And the other side?”
“There isn’t any other side,” exploded the artist. “She’s worried to death. Not a day passes but some scurrilous penny-a-liner springs some yarn, some beastly innuendo. She’s been dodging the fellow for months. In Paris last year she couldn’t move without running into him. This year she changed her apartment, and gave orders at the Opera to refuse her address to all who asked for it. Consequently she had some peace. I don’t know why it is, but a woman in public life seems to be a target.”
“The penalty of beauty, Abby. Homely women seldom are annoyed, unless they become suffragists.” The colonel poured forth a dense cloud of smoke.
“What brand is that, Colonel?” asked Courtlandt, choking.
The colonel generously produced his pouch.