“How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow younger!”
“It's the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a good digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are you, Loo?”
“As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.”
“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at the amber-colored silk of her dress.
“Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I was suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.”
“Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing.
“Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called 'resigned.'”
“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he again.
She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?”
“Nothing,—absolutely nothing, dear. You don't care for political news?”