"Well, I'm no hand at describing. I suppose it reads correctly enough. At any rate, Rosamund was the handsomest girl there, and the best dressed—so several said—and the one who drew the most attention."
"Is that right, Bingham?" the old man repeated. He was accustomed enough to the public presentation of other men's daughters, but this was the first time that such a thing had befallen one of his own.
"Oh," replied Bingham; "you mean that way. Well, times change. Ten years ago this would have brought a protest, and twenty a flogging. And we change with them. However, if this is the Miss Rosamund Marshall who has begun lately to figure at teas and receptions and cotillons, and always contrives to be the bright particular—Is it?"
Marshall smiled slowly. All this was true enough, and he could not profess himself completely displeased. He nodded.
"Well, then, you'll have to stand it; you can't avoid it; it can't be helped. And there's one more thing, too."
"What?"
"There was a young man present on this same occasion," Bingham proceeded; "a decorative, diffusive young man—with a badge. Richard Truesdale Marshall—was that his name? Any son of yours?"
Marshall nodded again, but his smile was distinctly less complacent.
"I am beginning to meet his name in print quite frequently," pursued
Bingham, serenely. "Is he the same Truesdale Marshall who has a
collection of water-colors in the current exhibition at the Art
Institute?"
"I believe so," responded the old man, with some lack of warmth.