“There is now,” said her father.  He was in no mood for tomfoolery.  His daughter saw it and smiled a little.

“What is it?” she inquired.  And then he let her have it!

“Laura wants to get married,” he snapped.

Deborah caught her breath at that, and an eager excited expression swept over her attractive face.  She had leaned forward suddenly.

“Father!  No!  Which one?” she asked.  “Tell me!  Is it Harold Sloane?”

“It is.”

“Oh, dad.”  She sank back in her chair.  “Oh, dad,” she repeated.

“What’s the matter with Sloane?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing, nothing—­it’s all right—­”

“It is, eh?  How do you know it is?” His anxious eyes were still upon hers, and he saw she was thinking fast and hard and shutting him completely out.  And it irritated him.  “What do you know of this fellow Sloane?”

“Oh, nothing—­nothing—­”

“Nothing!  Humph!  Then why do you sit here and say it’s all right?  Don’t talk like a fool!” he exclaimed.  He waited, but she said no more, and Roger’s exasperation increased.  “He has money enough apparently—­and they’ll spend it like March hares!”

Deborah looked up at him: 

“What did Laura tell you, dear?”

“Not very much.  I’m only her father.  She had a dinner and dance on her mind.”

But Deborah pressed her questions and he gave her brief replies.

“Well, what shall we do about it?” he asked.

“Nothing—­until we know something more.”  Roger regarded her fiercely.

“Why don’t you go up and talk to her, then?”

“She’s asleep yet—­”

“Never mind if she is!  If she’s going to marry a chap like that and ruin her life it’s high time she was up for her breakfast!”

While he scanned his Sunday paper he heard Deborah in the pantry.  She emerged with a breakfast tray and he saw her start up to Laura’s room.  She was there for over an hour.  And when she returned to his study, he saw her eyes were shining.  How women’s eyes will shine at such times, he told himself in annoyance.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Better leave her alone to-day,” she advised.  “Harold is coming some night soon.”

“What for?”

“To have a talk with you.”

Her father smote his paper.  “What did she tell you about him?” he asked.

“Not much more than she told you.  His parents are dead—­but he has a rich widowed aunt in Bridgeport who adores him.  They mean to be married the end of May.  She wants a church wedding, bridesmaids, ushers—­the wedding reception here, of course—­”

“Oh, Lord,” breathed Roger dismally.

“We won’t bother you much, father dear—­”

“You will bother me much,” he retorted.  “I propose to be bothered—­bothered a lot!  I’m going to look up this fellow Sloane—­”

“But let’s leave him alone for to-day.”  She bent over her father compassionately.  “What a night you must have had, poor dear.”  Roger looked up in grim reproach.