Then the bell boomed--the lights went out--and after a little moment,
one saw Cinderella, stripped of her finery, staggering up the stairs.
Jean cried and laughed, and cried again. Yet even in the midst of her
emotion, she found her eyes pulled away from that appealing figure on
the stage to those faintly illumined figures in the box.
When the curtain went down, her father, most surprisingly, bowed to the
old gentleman and received in return a genial nod.
"Oh, do you know him?" she demanded.
"Yes. It is General Drake."
"Who are the others?"
"I am not sure about the women. The boy in the back of the box is his
son, DeRhymer Drake."
Derry!
"Oh,"--she had a feeling that she was not being quite candid with her
father--"he's rather swank, isn't he, Daddy?"
"Heavens, what slang! I don't see where you get it. He is rich, if
that's what you mean, and it's a wonder he isn't spoiled to death. His
mother is dead, and the General is his own worst enemy; eats and drinks
too much, and thinks he can get away with it."
"Are they very rich--?"
"Millions, with only Derry to leave it to.
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