regarding him.

"Oh, do you mind? I'm sorry. I won't, after this," she answered. And Roger
colored angrily, for the glint of amusement in Laura's mischievous black
eyes revealed quite unmistakably that she regarded both her father and his
feeling for the Sabbath as very dear and 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.