“He’s come!” cried her father.
The door swung partly open and her face appeared at the edge. “Roger? Downstairs?”
“Yes—I answered the telephone from the office.”
“I can’t receive him up here. It’s against the rules. Yet I want— No—say I’ll be down to the parlor immediately.”
“But I’m here,” suggested her father. “He could come up.”
“He mustn’t see you.”
“I could wait in there—couldn’t I?”
“Yes—the door is thick,” reflected Beatrice aloud. “Yes—say he is to come up. Val—Miss Clermont has gone out.... No—I’ll see him in the parlor.”
And Beatrice closed the door. It was not many minutes before she opened it again—to appear bewitchingly dressed in a new spring toilet—and the styles that year were exactly suited to her figure. She was radiant, and her father’s depressed countenance did not lessen her overflowing delight. “You can’t deny that he loves me—can you?” cried she.
“No,” replied Richmond. “The fact is, I saw he did yesterday.”