Part 11 (1/2)

”Oho!” Jacqueline rounded her eyes. ”They're that sort, are they?

Asterisks in the critical spots?”

The Professor blushed. ”Well, er--no. No asterisks whatever, anywhere.

He belongs to what is called the er--decadent school.”

Jacqueline gazed around him at the author with increased respect.

”What's his name, G.o.ddy?”

”James Percival Channing. 'James' is for me. Calls himself 'J.

Percival,' however. He would.”

”What?--not _the_ Channing? Why, G.o.ddy, of course I've heard of him! I had no idea you had any one belonging to you like that.”

”I don't often brag of it,” he murmured.

”But what is he doing here?”

”Getting next to Nature, I believe. Collecting specimens, dialect, local color, animals in their habitat, you know. Take care, or he'll be collecting you.”

Her eyes twinkled. ”Wouldn't it be gorgeous to be in a book! Professor Jimsy, don't you think we ought to give him a little local color at once? Some native habits, for instance. Dare me to? Come, be a sport and dare me to! Then if Mother or Jemmy scolds me, I can blame it all on you.”

She stroked his hand persuasively. There was no resisting Jacqueline's blandishments. He dared her to, albeit with misgivings. Ever since her infancy, when hearing his voice in the hall she had escaped from her nurse and her bath simultaneously and arrived, slippery with wet soap, to welcome him, Jacqueline had been the source of an uneasy fascination for her G.o.dfather. She represented, in his rather humdrum life, the element of the unexpected.

Some moments later the group gathered about Mrs. Kildare--and incidentally Jemima--were startled by the appearance of a vision in pink at the head of the stairs, who casually straddled the banister and arrived in their midst with the swoop of a rocket.

”Jacqueline!” gasped her sister.

Kate shook her head reprovingly, and smiled. After all, one of her children was still a child. No need to trouble about the future yet!

Channing was the first of the guests to collect his wits, and he a.s.sisted the newcomer to alight from the newel-post with gallantry.

”What an effective entrance, Miss--ah, Jacqueline,” he commented. ”An idea for musical comedy, all the chorus sliding down on to the stage in a procession. I must suggest it to my friend Cohan.”

The girl suddenly felt very small, but she concealed her embarra.s.sment beneath an excessive nonchalance. ”Why, in Boston don't people use their banisters? We find them so convenient, so time-saving.”

”Unfortunately, in Boston,” he replied blandly, ”very few women seem to have such decorative legs to exhibit.”

There was a shocked pause. Thorpe and Mrs. Kildare had moved out of hearing. The three other young men rushed into the breach with small talk, casting furious looks at Channing, much to his amus.e.m.e.nt.

He made a mental note: ”In rural Kentucky the leg may be seen but not heard.”

Later Jacqueline whispered to her sister, ”What was wrong with that compliment? Why did everybody look so queer?”

Their education had not included a course in the lesser feminine proprieties. But Jemima was not one to be caught napping. Conventions came to her by instinct.

”He should have said 'limbs,'” she answered promptly. ”And he should not have seen them at all!”

Jacqueline inspected her slim ankles with approval. ”I don't see how he could have helped it. They're very pretty. Blossom, what's wrong with legs anyway?”

But for once Jemima was unable to enlighten her.