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.
"Yes," murmured Laurel.
"How are you, Laurel?" he asked.
"All right."
"What sort of a year has it been?"
"All right."
Just the shortest, most conventional of questions—just the shortest, most non-committal of answers, but full of significance to them both; full of the promise of the dawning of the old sweet intimacy which never failed to steal over Laurel and her father, once they got rid of preliminaries, and to possess them like sunshine a cloudless day, once it breaks through the mists and fogs of early morning.
Laurel's father sat away as far as possible from her and surveyed her from top to toe. The close little toque with the red berries gave her a mature look that was unfamiliar. He sighed.
"You're growing up, Lollie," he said gently.
Whenever Laurel's father called her Lollie, it always brought the vision of her mother sharply before her eyes. Her mother and father were the only two people in the world who had ever called her the silly little baby-name of Lollie—"Lolliepops" once it had been. She shoved the vision away as soon as possible. It hurt somehow. Her mother would have so loved the lights outside the taxicab window,
