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.
"You like all this," he grunted. "You, a grown woman, a teacher too."
"I wonder if I do," she said. "I guess I'm a queer person, dad, a curious
family mixture--of Laura and Edith and mother and you, with a good deal of
myself thrown in. But it feels rather good to be mixed, don't you think?
Let's stay mixed as long as we can--and keep together the family."
* * * * *
That afternoon, to distract him, Deborah took her father to a concert in
Carnegie Hall.
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