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 to
the maid. "Call up Mrs. Raymond's apartment and ask what time is dinner
to-night."

"Are you going to dance later on?" he inquired.

"Oh, I guess so," she replied. "On the Astor Roof, I think they said--"

Her father went on with his dinner. These hotel dances, he had heard, ran
well into Sunday morning. How Judith would have disapproved. He hesitated
uneasily.

"I don't especially care for this dancing into Sunday," he said. For a
moment he did not look up from his plate. When he did he saw Laura