“And had a fine time explaining to the Vatican,” sniffed the mother.
“Some day I am going to confess to him.”
“Confess what?” asked Celeste.
“That I have wished the Calabrian’s voice would fail her some night in Carmen; that I am wearing shoes a size too small for me; that I should like to be rich without labor; that I am sometimes ashamed of my calling; that I should have liked to see father win a prizefight; oh, and a thousand other horrid, hateful things.”
“I wish to gracious that you would fall violently in love.”
“Spiteful! There are those lovely lace collars; come on.”
“You are hopeless,” was the mother’s conviction.
“In some things, yes,” gravely.
“Some day,” said Celeste, who was a privileged person in the Harrigan family, “some day I am going to teach you two how to play at foils. It would be splendid. And then you could always settle your differences with bouts.”
“Better than that,” retorted Nora. “I’ll ask father to lend us his old set of gloves. He carries them around as if they were a fetish. I believe they’re in the bottom of one of my steamer trunks.”