, and had
remained at home. That her father had accepted her lame explanation and
her presence in the party with unaffected pleasure had been plain. Mrs.
Brewster, after a quiet inquiry regarding her health, had been less
enthusiastic in her welcome. Barbara was just stifling a yawn when the
limousine stopped at the entrance to the Caf St. Marks.

Inside the caf all was light and gaiety, and Barbara brightened
perceptibly as the attentive head waiter ushered them to the table
Colonel McIntyre had reserved earlier in the evening.

"It's a novel idea turning the old church into a caf," Barbara remarked
to Benjamin Clymer. "A sort of casting bread upon the waters of famished
Washington. I wonder if they ever turn water into wine?"

"No such luck," groaned Clymer dismally, looking with distaste at the
sparkling grape juice being poured into the erstwhile champagne goblet
by his plate. "The caf is crowded to-night," and he gazed with interest
about the room. Colonel McIntyre, who had loitered behind to speak to
several friends at an adjacent table, took the unoccupied seat by
Mrs. Brewster and was soon in animated conversation with the widow and
Clymer; Barbara, her healthy appetite asserting itself, devoted her
entire attention to the delicious delicacies placed before her. The
arrival of the after-the-theater crowd awoke her from her abstraction,
and she accepted Clymer's invitation to dance with alacrity. When they
returned to the table she discovered that Margaret Brewster and her
father had also joined the dancers.

Barbara watched them while keeping up a disjointed conversation with
Clymer, whose absentminded remarks finally drew Barbara's attention, and
she wondered what had come over the generally entertaining banker. It
was on the tip of her tongue to ask him the reason for his distrait
manner when her thoughts were diverted by his next remark.

"Your father and Mrs. Brewster make a fine couple," he said. "Colonel
McIntyre is the most distinguished looking man in the caf and Mrs.
Brewster is a regular beauty."

Instead of replying Barbara turned in her seat and scanned her father as
he and Mrs. Brewster passed them in the dance. Colonel McIntyre did not
look his age of forty-seven years. His hair, prematurely gray, had a
most attractive wave to it, and his erect and finely proportioned figure
showed to advantage in his well-cut dress suit. Barbara's heart swelled
with pride--her dear and handsome father! Then