to dance with him pretty soon."

"I don't care--so long as you don't give him one of the numbers that
belong to me."

"I'll try to remember," she said, and thoughtfully lifted to her face
the bouquet of violets and lilies, a gesture which George noted
without approval.

"Look here! Who sent you those flowers you keep makin' such a fuss
over?"

"He did."

"Who's 'he'?"

"The queer-looking duck."

George feared no such rival; he laughed loudly. "I s'pose he's some
old widower!" he said, the object thus described seeming ignominious
enough to a person of eighteen, without additional characterization.
"Some old widower!"

Lucy became serious at once. "Yes, he is a widower," she said. "I
ought to have told you before; he's my father."

George stopped laughing abruptly. "Well, that's a horse on me. If
I'd known he was your father, of course I wouldn't have made fun of
him. I'm sorry."