He did not at first see the movement of the trailing vines and flowers that formed curtains to one of the room’s great entrances. Nor, until she spoke and came whirling into the room to drop a deep curtsey before him did he see the girl who had parted those curtains—a girl of such flower-like beauty that she might have been sister to one of the blossoms through which she made her way. She looked at him with eyes that sparkled above delicately flushed cheeks. And Hugh Benton gazed on his débutante daughter with a joy that was greater by far than he had ever contemplated any of his wealth of possessions.
“Well, dad!” Elinor Benton exclaimed breathlessly. “How do I look for my first formal introduction into society?”
For a moment the father did not speak as he looked at her. He was trying to realize that this gloriously beautiful girl of eighteen, bubbling over with the exuberance and enthusiasm of youth was his daughter. Her hair was the same that Marjorie’s had been when he had married her. It was a mass of spun gold with the sun glittering upon it. Features, complexion, figure—all were flawless, and Hugh’s eyes beamed with pride as he answered tenderly, truly; “You’re as beautiful as an angel, dear.”
“Oh, how dear of you to think so, dad!” was her answer, then her manner changed to an impishness as she added: “It’s certainly fine to have such a verdict to fall back on first, because there’s going to be a cataclysm hereabouts in a few minutes about my angelic appearance. Mother’s going to have a spasm or two when she sees my dress.” Her eyes were full of mischief as she placed her hand on her father’s arm wheedlingly. “But you’ll stand by me, won’t you—there’s a good dad?”
Hugh was surprised.
“Why, what’s wrong, little one?” he asked. “Looks to me like a very wonderful little gown,” and his eyes, trained to admire feminine adornment, took in with admiration the details of his daughter’s dainty creation of cream lace with its garlands of pink rosebuds.
“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with the dress, but look at my neck and arms,” Elinor hastened to explain as she held out the discussed members for inspection. “Don’t you see they’re actually bare. Oh, what a crime!” She shook her finger admonishingly at her roundly-molded young arm. Then her mocking turned to more of seriousness as she went on: “I can tell you things, dad, and you’ll understand, so you might just as well be told before the explosion how naughty-naughty your little girl is. The facts are these: When we went to Madame Felice’s for my last fitting, the dress was just as you see it now, but mother wouldn’t have it at all. She said it was positively indecent for a girl of eighteen to expose her neck and arms, and she ordered Madame to fill in the neck with lace and add sleeves to reach the elbows. Madame declared that it would ruin the entire charm of the gown, but mother was as firm as a rock and she couldn’t sway her an inch. Well, when we reached home, I decided to take the matter into my own hands, so I called up Felice and told her mother had changed her mind and she was to leave the gown as it was—well—and here it is!”
Hugh’s half humorous expression was still entirely admiring as he looked over the troublesome garment. He laughed as his shoulders shrugged in dismissal of something not understood. “Well, child,” he added, as he took her hand and patted it, “as far as I’m concerned, I am still of the same opinion—both you and you gown are beautiful. Your neck and arms are perfect, and I don’t see why you should have to hide them—I do wish,” and there was a hint of impatience in his voice, “that your mother would get over some of her old-fashioned ideas.”
“Not any more than I do, dad. Why for years mother has been writing me that after I graduated she and I would be real chums, and now that I am home we do nothing but argue all day long. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on the verge of quarreling with her. We haven’t a single taste in common, and we positively clash on every subject. Why, I’ve found out mother is simply years behind the times and I—well, you know, dad, that none of the girls I’ve been to school with are that, to say the least. I don’t think mother has any conception of modern girls—and I can’t help it if I’m one, can I?”
Hugh shook his head. “You suit me, dear,” he answered consolingly. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, either, if there isn’t a good deal in your argument. But I expect you’ll have to do what I have for a long time, and make the best of it. Your mother is too set in her opinions to attempt to change her now—so you’ll have to be content with me and your girl friends for chums.”