Part 12 (2/2)

”Jim, you psychologists have a stupid way of dividing people into types.

I regard them as individuals. My girls will do Mag Henderson more good than she can do them harm,” she said, with a quiet dignity which ended discussion. ”Good Heavens! What sort of dance is that?”

The dancing that is called ”new” was just making its triumphal progress westward into the homes of the land.

”That, I believe, is a highly fas.h.i.+onable performance called the Turkey Trot.”

”Looks it,” she commented disapprovingly, even while her feet beat time to the infectious measure.

The voice of Jacqueline rang out, ”But this isn't new at all! It's just ragging, like they do at the quarters, only not so limber. We've known how to rag for ever so long, haven't we, Blossom? Watch us!”

She caught her sister around the waist and went strutting down the long hall, hips and shoulders swinging, pretty feet prancing, laughing back over her shoulder with unconscious provocation, until a delighted old negro voice at the window cried, ”Dat's de style, Miss Jack! Dat's de way to git 'em, honey!”

With the first note of the phonograph, the entire domestic force had transformed itself into an unseen audience.

When Philip Benoix came to the top of the Storm road, he jerked up his horse in sheer amaze. It was a scene such as he had never expected to find in that grim old fortress-home. Past the lighted windows couples stepped rapidly to the t.i.tivating strains of ”Trop Moutarde”; while on the lawn outside the entire population of the quarters pranced and capered in much the same fas.h.i.+on, somewhat hampered by the excited dogs.

Kate Kildare stood in the open doorway, gazing from the dancers within to the dancers without, and laughing until she held her sides.

Philip's grave face warmed with sympathy. ”It is good to see her laugh like that. I won't tell her to-night,” he thought; and would have turned away, but that the dogs suddenly became aware of him and gave tongue.

”Heah comes Pahson to jine de high jinks!” cried the erstwhile butler, running hospitably to take his horse. It was too late for retreat.

CHAPTER X

Kate stepped down into the porch with outstretched hands. ”I am so glad it is you, Phil dear. You must have felt me wis.h.i.+ng for you. Come, come in, boy! You don't have half enough of 'high jinks'!”

He shook his head silently.

She made a little grimace. ”I forgot--the Cloth does not dance. But surely the Cloth may look on?”

”From afar off, perhaps, out of the way of temptation.”

He spoke smilingly, but she reproached herself for thoughtlessness.

Philip was very careful not to present himself anywhere that his presence might cause restraint or embarra.s.sment, he never forgot, no matter if others forgot, that he was the son of a convict.

”Then I shall sit out here with you.” As she drew closer to him, she saw his face clearly in the light that streamed from the open doorway. It was very pale. ”Oh!” she cried. ”What is the matter, Philip?”

”My father--”

Her hand went to her heart.

”Not bad news,” he said quickly. ”Good news. To-day I had a letter from the Governor.”

The newly elected Governor of the State had been the presiding judge at Jacques Benoix' trial.

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