"I thought you would have gotten over that feeling by this time," I
ventured.

"Oh, there's none of the old feeling left," she answered, so simply that
I knew she believed her own statement. "But to have lived on his
money--Where is he?" she asked abruptly.

I told her that also and about Sunday night; the whole thing. The Bonnie
Lassie would have slain me. But I couldn't help it. I was feeling
rather abject.

Sunday night came, and with it Miss Marie Courtenay, escorted by an
"ace" covered with decorations, whose name is a household word and who
was only too obviously her adoring slave. Already there had been hints
of their engagement. Had I been that ace, I should have felt no small
discomposure at the sight of the girl's face when she first saw the
changed and matured Weeping Scion of three years before. After the first
flash of recognition she had developed on that expressive face of hers a
look of wonder and almost pathetic questioning, and, I thought, who knew
and loved the child, already something deeper and sweeter. Young David,
after greeting the star of the evening, took a modest rear seat as
befitted his rank. But when the Bonnie Lassie announced "Doggy," it was
his face that was the study.

Of that performance I shall say nothing. It is now famous and familiar
to thousands of theater-goers. But if ever mortal man spent twenty
minutes in fairyland, it was David, while Mary was playing the work of
his fancy. At the close, he disappeared. I suppose he did not dare trust
himself to join in the congratulations with which she was overwhelmed. I