in some
pleasant pastime, such as spinning, or painting china, or playing the
piano, or reading a volume of poems. No one ever seemed to bother about
the incongruence of the eyes, which were invariably focused at the camera
lens. Here they all were. Mrs. Harrigan was deep in the intricate maze of
the Amelia Ars of Bologna, which, as the initiated know, is a wonderful
lace. By one of the windows sat Nora, winding interminable yards of
lace-hemming from off the willing if aching digits of the Barone, who was
speculating as to what his Neapolitan club friends would say could they
see, by some trick of crystal-gazing, his present occupation. Celeste was
at the piano, playing (_pianissimo_) snatches from the operas, while
Abbott looked on, his elbows propped upon his knees, his chin in his
palms, and a quality of ecstatic content in his eyes. He was in his
working clothes, picturesque if paint-daubed. The morning had been
pleasant enough, but just before luncheon the rain clouds had gathered and
settled down with that suddenness known only in high altitudes.

The ex-gladiator sat on one of those slender mockeries, composed of
gold-leaf and parabolic curves and faded brocade, such as one sees at the
Trianon or upon the stage or in the new home of a new millionaire, and
which, if the true facts be known, the ingenious Louis invented for the
discomfort of his favorites and the folly of future collectors. It creaked
whenever Harrigan sighed, which was often, for he was deeply immersed (and
no better word could be selected to fit his mental condition) in the
baneful book which he had hurled out of the window the night before, only
to retrieve like the good dog that he was. To-day his shoes offered no
loophole to criticism; he had very well attended to that. His tie
harmonized with his shirt and stockings; his suit was of grey tweed; in
fact, he was the glass of fashion and the mold of form, at least for the
present.

"Say, Molly, I don't see what difference it makes."

"Difference what makes, James?" Mrs. Harrigan raised her eyes from her
work. James had been so well-behaved that morning it was only logical for
her to anticipate that he was about to abolish at one fell stroke all his
hard-earned merits.

"About eating salads. We never used to put oil on our tomatoes. Sugar and
vinegar were good enough."

"Sugar and vinegar are not nourishing; olive-oil is."

"We seemed to hike along all right before we learned that." His gu