Everything But the Truth

"Only in fun."

Celeste laughed and threw her arm around the mother's waist, less ample
than substantial. "Don't you care! Nora is being pursued by little devils
and is venting her spite on us."

"There'll be too much Burgundy and tobacco, to say nothing of the awful
stories."

"With the good old padre there? Hardly," said Nora.

Celeste was a French woman. "I confess that I like a good story that isn't
vulgar. And none of them look like men who would stoop to vulgarity."

"That's about all you know of men," declared Mrs. Harrigan.

"I am willing to give them the benefit of a doubt."

"Celeste," cried Nora, gaily, "I've an idea. Supposing you and I run back
after dinner and hide in the card-room, which is right across from the
dining-room? Then we can judge for ourselves."

"Nora Harrigan!"

"Molly Harrigan!" mimicked the incorrigible. "Mother mine, you must learn
to recognize a jest."

"Ah, but yours!"

"Fine!" cried Celeste.

As if to put a final period to the discussion, Nora began to hum audibly
an aria from Aïda.

They engaged a carriage in the village and were driven up to the villa. On
the way Mrs. Harrigan discussed the stranger, Edward Courtlandt. What a
fine-looking young man he was, and how adventurous, how well-connected,
how enormously rich, and what an excellent catch! She and Celeste--the one
innocently and the other provocatively--continued the subject to the very
doors of the villa. All the while Nora hummed softly.

"What do you think of him, Nora?" the mother inquired.