"What do you know about passion?" quizzed her father.
"It rhymes with 'fashion,'" said Daphne.
For an instant only from blue eyes to black eyes and black eyes to blue again the baffling, sphynxlike mystery of youth defied the baffling, sphynxlike mystery of experience. Then quite 93 abruptly her father reached out and cupped the little white quivering chin in the hollow of his hand.
"What did you think your lover would do, Daphne?" he smiled. "Tear down the college chapel? Set fire to the gymnasium? Cast all the faculty into dungeons—and come riding forth to claim you on a coal black charger decked with crimson trappings?"
"No, of course not," said Daphne. "Only——"
"Yes, that's just it," hurried her father. "'Only' boys do things like that! Only first-love, the young, wild free-lance peddler ready and able any moment, God bless him, to dump down his whole tip-cartful of trinkets at the feet of the first lady- fair who meets his fancy! But a grown man, Daphne, is a corporation! No end of other people's investments tied up with him! No end of rules and obligations encompassing him about! Truly, little girl, there are mighty few grown men who could proffer honorable succor even to their belovedest on such short notice. Truly, little girl, taken all in all, I think your John 94 is doing pretty well. Maybe for all you know your John owes money!"
"He does," nodded Daphne. "There were some queer old editions of something he persuaded the college to buy last year. They turned out not to be genuine or something and John feels he ought to refund on it."
"And maybe there's an old father somewhere?"
"It's an old mother," quivered Daphne.
"And maybe the college president herself didn't make things any too easy for him!"