et 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.

"There, there, Molly, old girl!" soothed the outlaw. "I'll read the book.
I know I'm a stupid old stumbling-block, but it's hard to teach an old dog
new tricks, that is, at the ring of the gong. Run along to your party. And
don't break any more hearts than you need, Nora."

Nora promised in good faith. But once in the ballroom, that little son of
Satan called malice-aforethought took possession of her; and there was
havoc. If a certain American countess had not patronized her; if certain
lorgnettes (implements of torture used by said son of Satan) had not been
leveled in her direction; if certain fans had not been suggestively spread
between pairs of feminine heads,--Nora would have been as harmless as a
playful kitten.

From door to door of the ballroom her mother fluttered like a hen with a
duckling. Even Celeste was disturbed, for she saw that Nora's conduct was
not due to any light-hearted fun. There was something bitter and ironic
cloaked by those smiles, that tinkle of laughter. In fact, Nora from
Tuscany flirted outrageously. The Barone sulked and tore at his mustache.
He committed any number of murders, by eye and by wish. When his time came
to dance with the mischief-maker, he whirled her around savagely, and
never said a word; and once done with, he sternly returned her to her
mother, which he deemed the wisest course to pursue.

"Nora, you are behaving abominably!" whispered her mother, pale with
indignation.

"Well, I am having a good time ... Your dance? Thank you."

And a tender young American led her through the mazes of the waltz, as
some poet who knew what he was about phrased it.

It is not an exaggeration to say that there was not a woman in the
ballroom to compare with her, and some of them were marvelously gowned and
complexioned, too. She overshadowed them not only by sheer beauty, but by
exuberance of spirit. And they followed her with hating eyes and whispered
scandalous things behind their fans and wondered what had possessed the
Marchesa to invite the bold thing: so does mediocrity pay homage to beauty
and genius.