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.
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