What a brain, and what a splendid presence!  But there’s something vital lacking; no soul, no conscience—­that’s the trouble,” he commented inwardly—­little dreaming that he exactly voiced the criticism universally passed upon himself.  Then his thoughts took a new tack.  “Wonder what the daughter is like?  I’ll have to hunt her up.  It’s a joke—­if it is on me!  Must see my debutante.  After all, if I’m paying, I ought to look her over.  She’s going to the Opera—­in Denning’s box—­h’m!”

Gard broke two engagements, and at the appointed hour found himself wandering through the corridor back of the first tier boxes at the Metropolitan.  Its bare convolutions were as resonant as a sea shell.  Vast and vague murmurs of music, presages of melodies, undulated through the passages, palpitated like the living breath of Euterpe, suppressed excitement lurked in every turn, there was throb and glow in each pulsating touch of unseen instruments.  Gard found his heart tightening, his nostrils expanding.  A flash of the divine fire of youth leaped through his veins.  Adventure suddenly beckoned him—­the lure of the unknown, of the magic x of algebra in human equation.  So great was his enjoyment that he savored it as one savors a dainty morsel, lingering over it, fearful that the next taste may destroy the perfect flavor.

He paced the corridor, nodding here and there, pausing for a moment to chat with this or that personage, affable, noncommittal, Chesterfieldian, handsome and distinguished in his clean, silver-touched middle age.

Inwardly he was fretting for their appearance—­his debutante and Mme. Robin Hood.  Of course they must do the conventional thing and be late.  But to his pleased surprise, just as the overture was drawing to its close, he saw Denning and his wife approaching.  Behind them he discerned the finely held head and chiseled features of the Lady of Compulsion, and close beside her a slender, girlish figure, shrouded in a silver and ermine cloak, a tinsel scarf half veiled a flower face, gentle, tremulous and inspired—­a Jeanne d’Arc of high birth and luxurious rearing.  Something tightened about his heart.  The child’s very appearance was dramatic coupled with the presence of her mother.  What the one lacked, the other possessed in its clearest essence.

With a hasty greeting to Denning and his diamond-sprinkled spouse, Gard turned with real cordiality to Mrs. Marteen.

“This is a pleasure!” He beamed with sincerity.  “Dear madam, present me to your lovely daughter.  We must be friends, Miss Dorothy.  Your very wise and resourceful mamma has given me many an interesting hour—­more than she has ever dreamed, I believe.”

He turned, accompanied them to the box and assisted the ladies with their wraps.  Dorothy turned upon him a pair of violet eyes, that at the mention of her mother’s name had lighted with adoration.

“Isn’t she wonderful!” she murmured, casting a bashful glance at Mrs. Marteen; then she added with simple gratefulness:  “I’m glad you’re friends.”  In her child’s fashion she had looked him over and approved.