ty to
describe his sensations. His elation was that ascribed to those fortunate
mortals whom the gods lifted to Olympus. At his feet lay the lace-hemming,
hopelessly snarled.

"Father, father!" remonstrated Nora; "you will wake up all the old ladies
who are having their siesta."

"Bah! I'll bet a doughnut their ears are glued to their doors. What ho!
Somebody's at the portcullis. Probably the padre, come up for tea."

He was at the door instantly. He flung it open heartily. It was
characteristic of the man to open everything widely, his heart, his mind,
his hate or his affection.

"Come in, come in! Just in time for the matinee concert."

The padre was not alone. Courtlandt followed him in.

[Illustration: Courtlandt followed him in.]

"We have been standing in the corridor for ten minutes," affirmed the
padre, sending a winning smile around the room. "Mr. Courtlandt was for
going down to the bureau and sending up our cards. But I would not hear of
such formality. I am a privileged person."

"Sure yes! Molly, ring for tea, and tell 'em to make it hot. How about a
little peg, as the colonel says?"

The two men declined.

How easily and nonchalantly the man stood there by the door as Harrigan
took his hat! Celeste was aquiver with excitement. She was thoroughly a
woman: she wanted something to happen, dramatically, romantically.

But her want was a vain one. The man smiled quizzically at Nora, who
acknowledged the salutation by a curtsy which would have frightened away
the banshees of her childhood. Nora hated scenes, and Courtlandt had the
advantage of her in his knowledge of this. Celeste remained at the piano,
but Nora turned as if to move away.

"No, no!" cried the padre, his palms extended in protest. "If you stop the
music I shall leave instantly."

"But we are all through, Padre," replied Nora, pinching Celeste's arm,
which action the latter readily understood as a command to leave the
piano.

Celeste, however, had a perverse streak in her to-day. Instead of rising
as Nora expected she would, she wheeled on the stool and began _Morning
Mood_ from Peer Gynt, because the padre preferred Grieg or Beethoven to
Chopin. Nora frowned at the pretty head below her. She stooped.

"I sha'n't forgive you for this trick," she whispered.

Celeste shrugged, and her fingers did not falter. So Nora moved away this
time in earnest.

"No, you must sing. That is what I came up for," insisted the padre. If
there w