Mr. Carewe frowned. “I trust that you discovered none last night whom you wished to honor with your entire programme?”
“No,” she laughed, “not last night.”
Her father tossed away his cigar abruptly “Is it too much to hope,” he inquired, “that when you discover a gentleman with whom you desire to waltz all night, you will omit to mention the fact to him?”
There was a brief flash of her eye as she recalled her impulse to take his hand, but she immediately looked at him with such complete seriousness that he feared his irony had been thrown away.
“I'll remember not to mention it,” she answered. “I'll tell him you told me not too.”
“I think you may retire now,” said Mr. Carewe, sharply.
She rose from the steps, went to the door, then turned at the threshold. “Were all your friends here, papa?”
“Do you think that every ninny who gabbled in my house last night was my friend?” he said, angrily. “There was one friend of mine, Mrs. Tanberry, who wasn't here, because she is out of town; but I do not imagine that you are inquiring about women. You mean: Was every unmarried male idiot who could afford a swallow-tailed coat and a clean pair of gloves cavorting about the place? Yes, miss, they were all here except two, and one of those is a fool, the other a knave.”
“Can't I know the fool?” she asked, eagerly.
“I rejoice to find them so rare in your experience!” he retorted. “This one is out of town, though I have no doubt you will see him sufficiently often when he returns. His name is Crailey Gray, and he is to marry Fanchon Bareaud—if he remembers!”