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.
"I am beginning to meet his name in print quite frequently," pursued
Bingham, serenely. "Is he the same Truesdale Marshall who has a
collection of water-colors in the current exhibition at the Art
Institute?"
"I believe so," responded the old man, with some lack of warmth.
"Is it the same Truesdale Marshall who sang last Friday at the residence
of Mrs. Granger S. Bates, for the benefit of--of--"
David Marshall smiled broadly. "Our Jennie--what a girl she is coming to
be! That Lunch Club is one of her pet notions; she pushes it at all
times--in season and out."
"She seems to be pushing it to good purpose just now," commented Bingham.
"By-the-way, I suppose she is the same Miss Marshall I danced with last
night. She sat in one of the upper places, so to speak, but she was
induced to go down on the floor for a few minutes."
"Well, Bingham," said Marshall, "I knew you went to that sort of thing
once in a while, and I thought that that in itself was a good deal for a
man like you; but for you to dance there--I shouldn't have imagined your
doing it; well, no.
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