"Oh, that's only my little way," returned Mrs. Bates, laughing. "You'd _both_ understand." Jane blushed again. "A way," she repeated; "but there are better ones, no doubt." And she laughed once more. X Bingham half folded the newspaper, and laid it again on Marshall's desk. Then he settled his large, long figure back in Marshall's other chair, and placed a broad finger or two upon each of its curved and varnished arms. "Yes," he observed, slowly, with a smile in the direction of the old man, "the younger generation are holding up their end." "So it seems," said Marshall, in return, while he scanned the other's face closely to see what his precise meaning might be. Bingham's remark had been uttered with an even intonation; it was difficult to determine whether, after all, he had emphasized "younger" more than "generation," or "their" more than "end," or, indeed, whether he had given an undue stress to either. "Yes," the old man repeated. He made another reference to the newspaper. "Yes; that is my child." He fixed an eye, half fascinated, half protesting, upon a large cut which was set to fill the width of two columns. It was a portrait of Rosy--of "Miss Rosamund Marshall," as it read--with a line or two more, vaguely biographical in character, in italics, beneath. It was engraved with more than the usual care, and printed with more than the usual success. This was the first time that any woman of his family had ever been exposed in the public prints. "And here are five or six lines telling how she was dressed. Is that right, Bingham?" "Well, I'm no hand at describing. I suppose it reads correctly enough. At any rate, Rosamund was the handsomest girl there, and the best dressed--so several said--and the one who drew the most attention." "Is that right, Bingham?" the old man repeated. He was accustomed enough to the public presentation of other men's daughters, but this was the first time that such a thing had befallen one of his own. "Oh," replied Bingham; "you mean _that_ way. Well, times change. Ten years ago this would have brought a protest, and twenty a flogging. And we change with them. However, if this is the Miss Rosamund Marshall who has begun lately to figure at teas and receptions and cotillons, and always contrives to be the bright particular--Is it?" Marshall smiled slowly. All this was true enough, and he could not profess himself completely displeased. He nodded. "Well, then, you'll have to stand it; you can't avoid it; it can't be helped. And there's one more thing, too." "What?" "There was a young man present on this same occasion," Bingham proceeded; "a decorative, diffusive young man--with a badge. Richard Truesdale Marshall--was that his name? Any son of yours?" Marshall nodded again, but his smile was distinctly less complacent.