ermine cloak, a tinsel scarf half veiled a flower face, gentle,
tremulous and inspired--a Jeanne d'Arc of high birth and luxurious
rearing. Something tightened about his heart. The child's very
appearance was dramatic coupled with the presence of her mother. What
the one lacked, the other possessed in its clearest essence.

With a hasty greeting to Denning and his diamond-sprinkled spouse, Gard
turned with real cordiality to Mrs. Marteen.

"This _is_ a pleasure!" He beamed with sincerity. "Dear madam, present
me to your lovely daughter. We must be friends, Miss Dorothy. Your very
wise and resourceful mamma has given me many an interesting hour--more
than she has ever dreamed, I believe."

He turned, accompanied them to the box and assisted the ladies with
their wraps. Dorothy turned upon him a pair of violet eyes, that at the
mention of her mother's name had lighted with adoration.

"Isn't she wonderful!" she murmured, casting a bashful glance at Mrs.
Marteen; then she added with simple gratefulness: "I'm glad you're
friends." In her child's fashion she had looked him over and approved.

A glow of pride suffused him. The obeisance of the kings of finance was
not so sweet to his natural vanity. "She's one in a million," he
answered heartily. "She should have been a man--and yet we would have
lost much in that case--you, for instance." He turned toward Mrs.
Marteen. "I congratulate you," he smiled. "She's just the sort of a girl
that _should_ have a good time--the very best the world can give her;
the world owes it. But aren't you"--and he lowered his voice--"just a
little afraid of those ecstatic eyes? Dear child, she must keep all the