would ever become intimate. There was no sense of companionship for
either in the other; she had been unable to break through his perfunctory,
almost formal, manner with her; therefore, because he encouraged no af-
fection in her, she felt none, and wondered why, since he was her father.
She was more curious about him than interested, and, though she did not
know it, she was prepared to judge him--should occasion arise--precisely
as she would judge any other mere acquaintance. This morning, for the
first time, she was conscious of a sense of warmth and gratitude toward
him: the elaborate fashion in which he had introduced her to his friends
made it appear possible that he liked her; for he had forgotten nothing,
and to remember everything in this case was to be lavish, which has often
the appearance of generosity.

And yet there had been a lack: some small thing she had missed, though she
was not entirely sure that she identified it; but the lack had not been in
her father or in anything he had done. Then, too, there was something so
unexpectedly human and pleasant in his not going to bed at once, but
remaining to smoke on the veranda at this hour, that she gave him credit
for a little of her own excitement, innocently fancying that he, also,
might feel the need of a companion with whom to talk over the brilliant
passages of the night. And a moment ensued when she debated taking his
hand. She was too soon glad that her intuition forbade the demonstration.

"It was all so beautiful, papa," she said, timidly. "I have no way to
tell you how I thank you."

"You may do that," he replied, evenly, with no unkindness, with no
kindness, either, in the level of his tone, "by never dancing again more
than twice with one man in one evening."