et eyes, that at the
mention of her mother's name had lighted with adoration.

"Isn't she wonderful!" she murmured, casting a bashful glance at Mrs.
Marteen; then she added with simple gratefulness: "I'm glad you're
friends." In her child's fashion she had looked him over and approved.

A glow of pride suffused him. The obeisance of the kings of finance was
not so sweet to his natural vanity. "She's one in a million," he
answered heartily. "She should have been a man--and yet we would have
lost much in that case--you, for instance." He turned toward Mrs.
Marteen. "I congratulate you," he smiled. "She's just the sort of a girl
that _should_ have a good time--the very best the world can give her;
the world owes it. But aren't you"--and he lowered his voice--"just a
little afraid of those ecstatic eyes? Dear child, she must keep all the
pink and gold illusions--" The end of his sentence he spoke really to
himself. But an expression in his hearer's face brought him to sudden
consciousness. Quite unexpectedly he had surprised fear in the classic
marble of the goddess face. The woman, who had not hesitated to commit
crime, feared the contact of the world for her child. It was a curious
revelation. All that was best, most generous and kindly in his nature
rose to the surface, and his smile was the rare one that endeared him to
his friends. "Let her have every pleasure that comes her way," he added.
"By the way, I'm sending you our box for Monday night. I hope you will
avail yourself of it. My sister will join you, and perhaps you will all
give me the pleasure of your company at Delmonico's afterward."

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes turning involuntarily toward the
girl. Then the human dimple enriched her cheeks, and it was with real
_camaraderie_ that she nodded an acceptance.

His attitude was humbly grateful. "I'll ask the Dennings, too," he
continued. "They're due elsewhere, I know, but they could join us."

The curtain was already rising and Gard, excusing himself, found his way
to the masculine sanctuary, the directors' box, of which he rarely
availed himself, and from a shadowy corner observed his debutante and
her beautiful mother through his powerful opera glasses. He found
himself taking a throbbing interest in the visitors at the loge
opposite. He was as interested in Dorothy Marteen's admirers as any fond
father could be; and yet his eyes turned with strange, fascinated
jealousy to the older woman's lovel