She pouted at the invalid.
"Poor father!" she loftily murmured, and stood while her mother threw the evening cloak about her acceptable shoulders.
It was true that at the La Boheme alcoholic stimulant would be served to those who desired it, but this was not compulsory, and the place was in no sense a common saloon.

Her father was old-fashioned, as he had shown himself to be about the lawless new dance steps that Wilbur had been teaching her.

He had declared that if people performed such antics in public without music they'd mighty soon find themselves in the lockup, and Winona had not even shuddered.

Now, as he continued to grumble at this degeneracy, she gracefully tapped his arm with her fan.

She had read of this device being effectively employed by certain conquerors of men, and coolly she tried it upon her father.