Elinor Benton had no worry about her father as far as her actor was concerned. She knew her father—knew his careless acceptance of anything she might tell him; knew, too, the only half hidden snobbery that would accept without question any guest of the Thurstons. Hugh Benton had reached the point where his society gods and goddesses could do no wrong.
A one-step was starting as the Bentons entered the big ball room. Hugh looked about him with as happy eyes as did his daughter. This was the kind of thing he loved; this what he had always been denied. His wife cared so little for the enjoyments of the society into which his hard work and diplomacy had landed them. But had he been a bit more observant, he would have seen that his little girl’s eyes were not as care-free as usual, that she was restless; there was still something that must occur to make her happiness complete. There was the thought that three hours must elapse before Templeton Druid should make his appearance. She saw several youths making their way in her direction. Of a sudden they seemed unspeakably inane. She did not want to dance with them. She placed her hand on her father’s arm.
“Come on, Dad, let’s dance,” she urged. “This is a one-step; I know you can dance that——”
Hugh Benton looked down and laughed as he placed his arm about his daughter.
“What’s in the baby that makes her want to dance with her old Dad, instead of these youngsters who are breaking their necks to reach her?” he asked humorously. But as they swung off, Elinor looked up at him, wrinkled her pretty nose and sniffed as she murmured: “My old Dad! Hmmph! Handsomest, youngest man in the room, I’ll tell the world. The girls’ll all be dying with jealousy——”
A light-gloved hand brushed her bare arm. A warm perfume unlike any he had ever smelt made Hugh Benton glance up quickly. A soft musical voice drawled:
“Hello, child! Do I have to interrupt your dance to make you notice me—to say good-evening. I’ve been trying to catch your eye ever since you came in.”
Elinor Benton swung out of her father’s arms to face Geraldine DeLacy—a marvelous Geraldine in her soft clinging iridescent gown, her deep dark eyes sparkling with pleasurable enjoyment, as though seeing and speaking with Elinor Benton was the event of the evening most to be desired.
“Oh, Geraldine,” cried the girl. “Isn’t it fine to see you! And right now when I’m with Dad. Goodness knows,” and she flashed an impish smile at her parent, “when the other girls get a chance at him, I’m going to see precious little of him this evening—and I do so want you two to know each other. This is Mrs. DeLacy, Dad—you know, Geraldine, of whom I’ve told you so much.”
“She has indeed, Mrs. DeLacy,” Hugh Benton added cordially. “I feel almost as if we were old friends——”