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.  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 regarding him.