at she should have dressed so
early in order to keep him company had caused her father some surprise, and
a faint suspicion entered his mind that she had overdrawn at the bank, as
she had the last time she sat with him like this. Her manner certainly was
a bit strange.

But Roger put the thought aside. Whatever she wanted, Laura was worth it.
In a tingling fashion he felt what a glorious time she was having, what a
gorgeous town she knew. It was difficult to realize she was his own
daughter, this dashing stranger sitting here, playing idly with a knife and
caressing him with her voice and her eyes. The blue evening gown she was
wearing to-night (doubtless not yet paid for) made her figure even more
supple and lithe, set off her splendid bosom, her slender neck, her creamy
skin. Her hair, worn low over her temples, was brown with just a tinge of
red. Her eyes were black, with gleaming lights; her lips were warm and
rich, alive. He did not approve of her lips. Once when she had kissed him
Roger had started slightly back. For his daughter's lips were rouged, and
they had reminded him of his youth. He had asked her sister to speak to
her. But Deborah had told him she did not care to speak to people in that
way--"especially women--especially sisters," she had said, with a quiet
smile. All very well, he reflected, but somebody ought to take Laura in
hand.

She had been his favorite as a child, his pet, his tiny daughter. He
remembered her on his lap like a kitten. How she had liked to cuddle there.
And she had liked to bite his hand, a curious habit in a child. "I hurt
daddy!" He could still recollect the gay little laugh with which she said
that, looking up brightly into his face.

And here she was already grown, and like a light in the sober old house,
fascinating while she disturbed him. He liked to hear her high pitched
voice, gossiping in Deborah's room or in her own dainty chamber chatting
with the adoring maid who was dressing her to go out. He loved her joyous
thrilling laugh. And he would have missed her from the house as he would
have missed Fifth Avenue if it had been dropped from the city. For the
picture Roger had formed of this daughter was more of a symbol than of a
girl, a symbol of the ardent town, spending, wasting, dancing mad. It was
Laura who had kept him living right up to his income.

"Where are you dining to-night?" he asked.

"With the Raymonds." He wondered who they were. "Oh, Sarah," she added t