CHAPTER III


On the next evening, Saturday, while Roger ate his dinner, Laura came to
sit with him. She herself was dining out. That 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.