His Family | Page 9

quaint
and old. Old? Of course he seemed old to her, Roger thought
indignantly. For what was Laura but a child? Did she ever think of
anything except having a good time? Had she ever stopped to think out
her own morals, let alone anyone else's? Was she any judge of what
was old--or of who was old? And he determined then and there to show
her he was in his prime. Impatiently he strove to remember the names
of her friends and ask her about them, to show a keen lively interest in
this giddy gaddy life she led. And when that was rather a failure he
tried his daughter next on books, books of the most modern kind.
Stoutly he lied and said he was reading a certain Russian novel of
which he had heard Deborah speak. But this valiant falsehood made no
impression whatever, for Laura had never heard of the book.
"I get so little time for reading," she murmured. And meanwhile she
was thinking, "As soon as he finishes talking, poor dear, I'll break the
news."
Then Roger had an audacious thought. He would take her to a play, by
George! Mustering his courage he led up to it by speaking of a play
Deborah had seen, a full-fledged modern drama all centered upon the
right of a woman "to lead her own life." And as he outlined the story,
he saw he had caught his daughter's attention. With her pretty chin
resting on one hand, watching him and listening, she appeared much
older, and she seemed suddenly close to him.
"How would you like to go with me and see it some evening?" he
inquired.

"See what, my love?" she asked him, her thoughts plainly far away; and
he looked at her in astonishment:
"That play I've just been speaking of!"
"Why, daddy, I'd love to!" she exclaimed.
"When?" he asked. And he fixed a night. He was proud of himself.
Eagerly he began to talk of opening nights at Wallack's. Roger and
Judith, when they were young, had been great first nighters there. And
now it was Laura who drew him out, and as he talked on she seemed to
him to be smilingly trying to picture it all.... "Now I'd better tell him,"
she thought.
"Do you remember Harold Sloane?" she asked a little strangely.
"No," replied her father, a bit annoyed at the interruption.
"Why--you've met him two or three times--"
"Have I?" The queer note in her voice made him look up. Laura had
risen from her chair.
"I want you to know him--very soon." There was a moment's silence.
"I'm going to marry him, dad," she said. And Roger looked at her
blankly. He felt his limbs beginning to tremble. "I've been waiting to
tell you when we were alone," she added in an awkward tone. And still
staring up at her he felt a rush of tenderness and a pang of deep remorse.
Laura in love and settled for life! And what did he know of the affair?
What had he ever done for her? Too late! He had begun too late! And
this rush of emotion was so overpowering that while he still looked at
her blindly she was the first to recover her poise. She came around the
table and kissed him softly on the cheek. And now more than ever
Roger felt how old his daughter thought him.
"Who is he?" he asked hoarsely. And she answered smiling,
"A perfectly nice young man named Sloane."

"Don't, Laura--tell me! What does he do?"
"He's in a broker's office--junior member of the firm, Oh, you needn't
worry, dear, he can even afford to marry me."
They heard a ring at the front door.
"There he is now, I think," she said. "Will you see him? Would you
mind?"
"See him? No!" her father cried.
"But just to shake hands," she insisted. "You needn't talk or say a word.
We've only a moment, anyway." And she went swiftly out of the room.
Roger rose in a panic and strode up and down. Before he could recover
himself she was back with her man, or rather her boy--for the fellow, to
her father's eyes, looked ridiculously young. Straight as an arrow,
slender, his dress suit irreproachable, the chap nevertheless was more
than a dandy. He looked hard, as though he trained, and his smooth and
ruddy face had a look of shrewd self-reliance. So much of him Roger
fathomed in the indignant cornered glance with which he welcomed
him into the room.
"Why, good evening, Mr. Gale--glad to see you again, sir!" Young
Sloane nervously held out his hand. Roger took it and muttered
something. For several moments, his mind in a whirl, he heard their
talk and laughter and his