"Are there any 'cheapest rooms' in this hotel?" she asked, gazing speculatively at the old-rose draperies at the high windows, and at the expanse of lace beyond.
"Don't you like these rooms, Laurel?"
"Oh, yes! Yes! Only—"
The crystal clock on the mahogany mantel had just struck ten-thirty. The Wednesday night "movies" at the summer hotel would be finishing about now. Laurel's mother, all dressed up in her pretty clothes, would be going upstairs to the horrid little bedroom, very soon, alone.
"Only what?" her father asked.
"Oh, nothing. I've been wondering what it would look like beside this one—that's all."
That wasn't all. Her father felt sure it wasn't all. But many of her thoughts he was unable to follow to their source. A faint suspicion disturbed him. Surely the allowance he sent to Laurel's mother was sufficient. He could vouch that as long as a sure three hundred and fifty dollars was coming to Stella every month, she would live well wherever she was. She delighted in living well.
"Why should you be thinking about cheap rooms?" he asked.
"No reason," Laurel replied shortly.
She was not going to tell him anyhow. That was clear. Useless to coax her.
Before he left her for the night, he said to her, "I really think you'd like it at Mrs. Morrison's, Laurel."
"Do you want me to go?"
"Well, I want you to know Mrs. Morrison," he
