Laura alone."

"There is now," said her father. He was in no mood for tomfoolery. His
daughter saw it and smiled a little.

"What is it?" she inquired. And then he let her have it!

"Laura wants to get married," he snapped.

Deborah caught her breath at that, and an eager excited expression swept
over her attractive face. She had leaned forward suddenly.

"Father! No! Which one?" she asked. "Tell me! Is it Harold Sloane?"

"It is."

"Oh, dad." She sank back in her chair. "Oh, dad," she repeated.

"What's the matter with Sloane?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing, nothing--it's all right--"

"It is, eh? How do you know it is?" His anxious eyes were still upon hers,
and he saw she was thinking fast and hard and shutting him completely out.
And it irritated him. "What do you know of this fellow Sloane?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing--"

"Nothing! Humph! Then why do you sit here and say it's all right? Don't
talk like a fool!" he exclaimed. He waited, but she said no more, and
Roger's exasperation increased. "He has money enough apparently--and
they'll spend it like March hares!"

Deborah looked up at him:

"What did Laura tell you, dear?"

"Not very much. I'm only her father. She had a dinner and dance on her
mind."

But Deborah pressed her questions and he gave her brief replies.

"Well, what shall we do about it?" he asked.

"Nothing--until we know something more." Roger regarded her fiercely.

"Why don't you go up and talk to her, then?"

"She's asleep yet--"

"Never mind if she is! If she's going to marry a chap like that and ruin
her life it's high time she was up for her breakfast!"

While he scanned his Sunday paper he heard Deborah in the pantry. She
emerged with a breakfast tray and he saw her start up to Laura's room. She
was there for over an hour. And when she returned to his study, he saw her
eyes were shining. How women's eyes will shine at such times, he told
himself in annoyance.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Better leave her alone to-day," she advised. "Harold is coming some night
soon."

"What for?"

"To have a talk with you."

Her father smote his paper. "What did she tell you about him?" he asked.

"Not much more than she told you. His parents are dead--but he has a rich
widowed aunt in Bridgeport who adores him. They mean to be married the end
of May. She wants a church wedding, bridesmaids, ushers--the wedding
reception here, of course--"

"Oh, Lord," breathed Roger dismally.

"We