Journey's End

Harrigan dined alone. He was in disgrace; he was sore, mentally as well as
physically; and he ate his dinner without relish, in simple obedience to
those well regulated periods of hunger that assailed him three times a
day, in spring, summer, autumn and winter. By the time the waiter had
cleared away the dishes, Harrigan had a perfecto between his teeth (along
with a certain matrimonial bit), and smoked as if he had wagered to finish
the cigar in half the usual stretch. He then began to walk the floor, much
after the fashion of a man who has the toothache, or the earache, which
would be more to the point. To his direct mind no diplomacy was needed;
all that was necessary was a few blunt questions. Nora could answer them
as she chose. Nora, his baby, his little girl that used to run around
barefooted and laugh when he applied the needed birch! How children grew
up! And they never grew too old for the birch; they certainly never did.

They heard him from the drawing-room; tramp, tramp, tramp.

"Let him be, Nora," said Mrs. Harrigan, wisely. "He is in a rage about
something. And your father is not the easiest man to approach when he's
mad. If he fought Mr. Courtlandt, he believed he had some good reason for
doing so."

"Mother, there are times when I believe you are afraid of father."

"I am always afraid of him. It is only because I make believe I'm not that
I can get him to do anything. It was dreadful. And Mr. Courtlandt was such
a gentleman. I could cry. But let your father be until to-morrow."