Laurel and her father were always a little formal and constrained with each other at first. Laurel never could adjust herself quickly to the fact that this distinguished-looking gentleman, with the close-shaven cheeks, little black mustache, and keen gray eyes, was her own father, whom, if he lived at home as other girls’ fathers did, she would be familiar enough with to climb over, and tug and pull at, perhaps. It took a little while for him, too, she imagined, to believe that she—freckled, long-banged, and black—was his.

She seemed perfectly calm and quiet when she put her hand in his, and he leaned and kissed her, but really her heart was beating fearfully.

Inside the taxicab on the way to the hotel, where Laurel and Miss Simpson were to stay, Laurel would sit beside Miss Simpson, and her father would occupy the seat opposite them. Most of the conversation, as they rumbled along, would be between Miss Simpson and her father—about the recent journey, the weather in Boston, the weather here, unimportant subjects, with long lapses of silence between; and upon arriving at the hotel, Laurel’s father would leave them at the elevator-door, and go away quickly as if he were glad to escape.

Upstairs in the luxurious three-roomed apartment which he had engaged for Laurel, there would be all sorts of surprises—dolls and elaborate toys, when Laurel was younger; candy and flowers, and a dear little fitted work-basket this time, and a pile of brand-new books, lying on the table beside the silk-shaded reading-lamp.

Laurel’s father lived in a bachelor’s apartment not far away from the hotel. It was easy for him to come in every morning and have breakfast alone with Laurel close beside one of the high windows in the private apartment, while Miss Simpson went downstairs to the dining-room. A waiter in black, who treated Laurel as if she were a princess, and her father as if he were a king, would roll in a table with a snowy cloth on it and shining china, with all sorts of delicious smells creeping out from beneath inverted silver bowls.

It would usually be at this first breakfast alone together that the real reunion between Laurel and her father would begin. This time, however, when her father left Laurel at the elevator-door, he had said he would return at seven thirty, and they would go to dinner somewhere together, if Miss Simpson would pardon his stealing his little girl away the very first night. So on this visit Laurel’s and her father’s first real words of greeting took place inside the dusky interior of the taxicab that bore them to the restaurant which he had selected. It was the first time in a whole year that they had been alone together.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, after the door had slammed upon them. Then, “Well, here we are,” said Laurel’s father.