“Yes, there are questions.”  Roger had risen mechanically and was slowly walking the room.  He threw out short gruff phrases.  “I’m not interested in your past—­I don’t care about digging into a man—­I never have and I never will—­except as it might affect my daughter.  That’s the main question, I suppose.  Can you make her happy?”

“I think so,” said Sloane, decidedly.  Roger gave him a glance of displeasure.

“That’s a large order, young man,” he rejoined.

“Then let’s take it in sections,” the youngster replied.  Confound his boyish assurance!  “To begin with,” he was saying, “I rather think I have money enough.  We’d better go into that, hadn’t we?”

“Yes,” said Roger indifferently.  “We might as well go into it.”  Of course the chap had money enough.  He was a money maker.  You could hear it in his voice; you could see it in his jaw, in his small aggressive blonde moustache.  Now he was telling briefly of his rich aunt in Bridgeport, of the generous start she had given him, his work downtown, his income.

“Twenty-two thousand this year,” he said.  “We can live on that all right, I guess.”

“You won’t starve,” was the dry response.  Roger walked for a moment in silence, then turned abruptly on young Sloane.

“Look here, young man, I don’t want to dig,” he continued very huskily.  “But I know little or nothing of what may be behind you.  I don’t care to ask you about it now—­unless it can make trouble.”

“It can’t make trouble.”  At this answer, low but sharp, Roger wheeled and shot a glance into those clear and twinkling eyes.  And his own eyes gleamed with pain.  Laura had been such a little thing in the days when she had been his pet, the days when he had known her well.  What could he do about it?  This was only the usual thing.  But he felt suddenly sick of life.

“How soon do you want to get married?” he demanded harshly.

“Next month, if we can.”

“Where are you going?”

“Abroad,” said Sloane.  Roger caught at this topic as at a straw.  Soon they were talking of the trip, and the tension slackened rapidly.  He had never been abroad himself but had always dreamed of going there.  With maps and books of travel Judith and he had planned it out.  In imagination they had lived in London and Paris, Munich and Rome, always in queer old lodgings looking on quaint crooked streets.  He had dreamed of long delicious rambles, glimpses into queer old shops, vast, silent, dark cathedrals.  For Laura how different it would be.  This boy of hers knew Europe as a group of gorgeous new hotels.