Part 27 (1/2)
”But what earthly chance have I?” he went on, innocently but ruthlessly.
”No one can help loving Nora.”
”No,” in a small voice.
”It's all rot, this talk about affinities. There's always some poor devil left outside. But who can help loving Nora?” he repeated.
”Who indeed!”
”And there's not the least chance in the world for me.”
”You never can tell until you put it to the test.”
”Do you think I have a chance? Is it possible that Nora may care a little for me?” He turned his head toward her eagerly.
”Who knows?” She wanted him to have it over with, to learn the truth that to Nora Harrigan he would never be more than an amiable comrade. He would then have none to turn to but her. What mattered it if her own heart ached so she might soothe the hurt in his? She laid a hand upon his shoulder, so lightly that he was only dimly conscious of the contact.
”It's a rummy old world. Here I've gone alone all these years....”
”Twenty-six!” smiling.
”Well, that's a long time. Never bothered my head about a woman. Selfish, perhaps. Had a good time, came and went as I pleased. And then I met Nora.”
”Yes.”
”If only she'd been stand-offish, like these other singers, why, I'd have been all right to-day. But she's such a brick! She's such a good fellow!
She treats us all alike; sings when we ask her to; always ready for a romp. Think of her making us all take the _Kneip_-cure the other night!
And we marched around the fountain singing 'Mary had a little lamb.'
Barefooted in the gra.s.s! When a man marries he doesn't want a wife half so much as a good comrade; somebody to slap him on the back in the morning to hearten him up for the day's work; and to cuddle him up when he comes home tired, or disappointed, or unsuccessful. No matter what mood he's in. Is my English getting away from you?”
”No; I understand all you say.” Her hand rested a trifle heavier upon his shoulder, that was all.
”Nora would be that kind of a wife. 'Honor, anger, valor, fire,' as Stevenson says. Hang the picture; what am I going to do with it?”
”'Honor, anger, valor, fire,'” Celeste repeated slowly. ”Yes, that is Nora.” A bitter little smile moved her lips as she recalled the happenings of the last two days. But no; he must find out for himself; he must meet the hurt from Nora, not from her. ”How long, Abbott, have you known your friend Mr. Courtlandt?”
”Boys together,” playing a light tattoo with his mahl-stick.
”How old is he?”
”About thirty-two or three.”
”He is very rich?”
”Oceans of money; throws it away, but not fast enough to get rid of it.”
”He is what you say in English ... wild?”
”Well,” with mock gravity, ”I shouldn't like to be the tiger that crossed his path. Wild; that's the word for it.”