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."

"I wish I knew if you meant it," sighed the mother.

"My dear, I have given myself to the stage. You will never see me being
led to the altar."

"No, you will do the leading when the time comes," retorted the mother.

"Mother, the men I like you may count upon the fingers of one hand. Three
of them are old. For the rest, I despise men."

"I suppose some day you will marry some poverty-stricken artist," said the
mother, filled with dark foreboding.

"You would not call Donald poverty-stricken."

"No. But you will never marry him."

"No. I never shall."

Celeste smoothed her hands, a little trick she had acquired from long
hours spent at the piano. "He will make some woman a good husband."

"That he will."

"And he is most desperately in love with you."

"That's nonsense!" scoffed Nora. "He thinks he is. He ought to fall in
love with you, Celeste. Every time you play the fourth _ballade_ he looks
as if he was ready