“Oh, a lot. First, there’s a luncheon engagement at the Biltmore with some of the girls, and then we’re going to the matinée. But those are small matters. The principal thing was to see you all alone—I have a lot to talk to you about that I decided would be much better to say here at your office instead of at home, so I came in an hour ahead of time.” And Elinor, settling herself in a comfortable easy chair, sat facing her father with an air of being ready to spend the hour. Hugh Benton, his keen eyes taking in every detail of her appearance, thought he had never seen his daughter more beautiful. Her taffeta gown of navy blue, her drooping picture hat with its one touch of color, her graceful squirrel scarf, all went so naturally into the making of the picture. As had become usual with him when in the presence of this daughter the man before whom kings of finance bowed, glowed inwardly with the pride of possession. “Well, baby girl, how much?” He smiled as his hand went towards his check-book. “No, Dad dear, it isn’t money this time.” Elinor’s face dimpled deliciously as she shook her head, “strange as it may seem to you,” she added. Then seriousness chased the dimples away. “No, dear, it’s something uncomfortably serious. It’s—it’s about mother!” “Your mother!” Hugh’s face, too, became serious. “Not ill, I hope.” “No, she is perfectly well,” the girl answered, as a dull red crept into her cheeks. “Oh, dad, I’m so ashamed of myself to sneak to you in this way, but dear, you might as well know the truth. It is utterly impossible for me to get along with mother. There! It’s out! Do you think I’m so dreadful?” anxiously. Hugh was solemn as he listened. Then he nodded. “I believe I do know your difficulty, dear,” he answered, as if uncertain just what to say in this moment he had been in a way prepared for. “And,” he added, “of course, I don’t think you’re dreadful——” Without waiting for him to conclude, Elinor burst out passionately: “Oh, Dad, surely you can see I simply cannot be the old-fashioned, namby-pamby bread-and-butter school-girl that mother wishes me to be. Why, everything I do meets with her disapproval—we can’t agree in a single instance. Really, Dad, it is unbearable, and I’m just sick about it!” Tears which had been valiantly withheld began to trickle down her cheeks. From his pocket Hugh took his handkerchief and wiped them tenderly away. “There, dear, you mustn’t cry and spoil your pretty eyes,” he soothed. “Remember your luncheon and matinée—I’m sure your misunderstanding with your mother can easily be straightened out. Calm down and tell me about it. What do you do that she objects to?”