________________________________________________
_ At every possible opportunity William hailed
other girls with a hasty ``M'av the next
'thyou?'' but he was indeed unfortunate to
have arrived so late.
The best he got was a promise of ``the nine-
teenth--if there IS any!''
After each dance Miss Boke conducted him
back to the maple-tree, aloof from the general
throng, and William found the intermissions
almost equal to his martyrdoms upon the platform.
But, as there was a barely perceptible balance in
their favor, he collected some fragments of his
broken spirit, when Miss Boke would have borne
him to the platform for the sixth time, and begged
to ``sit this one out,'' alleging that he had ``kind
of turned his ankle, or something,'' he believed.
The cordial girl at once placed him upon the
chair and gallantly procured another for herself.
In her solicitude she sat close to him, looking
fondly at his face, while William, though now
and then rubbing his ankle for plausibility's sake,
gazed at the platform with an expression which
Gustave Dore would gratefully have found
suggestive. William was conscious of a voice
continually in action near him, but not of what it
said. Miss Boke was telling him of the dancing
``up at the lake'' where she had spent the summer,
and how much she had loved it, but William
missed all that. Upon the many-colored platform
the ineffable One drifted to and fro, back
and forth; her little blonde head, in a golden net,
glinting here and there like a bit of tinsel blowing
across a flower-garden.
And when that dance and its encore were over
she went to lean against a tree, while Wallace
Banks fanned her, but she was so busy with
Wallace that she did not notice William, though
she passed near enough to waft a breath of
violet scent to his wan nose. A fragment of her
silver speech tinkled in his ear:
``Oh, Wallie Banks! Bid pid s'ant have
Bruvva Josie-Joe's dance 'less Joe say so. Lola
MUS' be fair. Wallie mustn't--''
``That's that Miss Pratt,'' observed Miss Boke,
following William's gaze with some interest.
``You met her yet?''
``Yeh,'' said William.
``She's been visiting here all summer,'' Miss
Boke informed him. ``I was at a little tea this
afternoon, and some of the girls said this Miss
Pratt said she'd never DREAM of getting engaged
to any man that didn't have seven hundred and
fifty thousand dollars. I don't know if it's true
or not, but I expect so. Anyway, they said they
heard her say so.''
William lifted his right hand from his ankle
and passed it, time after time, across his damp
forehead. He did not believe that Miss Pratt
could have expressed herself in so mercenary a
manner, but if she HAD--well, one fact in British
history had so impressed him that he remembered
it even after Examination: William Pitt, the
younger, had been Prime Minister of England at
twenty-one.
If an Englishman could do a thing like that,
surely a bright, energetic young American needn't
feel worried about seven hundred and fifty
thousand dollars! And although William, at
seventeen, had seldom possessed more than seven
hundred and fifty cents, four long years must
pass, and much could be done, before he would
reach the age at which William Pitt attained the
premiership--coincidentally a good, ripe,
marriageable age. Still, seven hundred and fifty
thousand dollars is a stiffish order, even allowing
four long years to fill it; and undoubtedly Miss
Boke's bit of gossip added somewhat to the
already sufficient anxieties of William's evening.
``Up at the lake,'' Miss Boke chattered on,
``we got to use the hotel dining-room for the
hops. It's a floor a good deal like this floor is
to-night--just about oily enough and as nice a
floor as ever I danced on. We have awf'ly good
times up at the lake. 'Course there aren't so
many Men up there, like there are here to-night,
and I MUST say I AM glad to get a chance to dance
with a Man again! I told you you'd dance all
right, once we got started, and look at the way
it's turned out: our steps just suit exactly! If I
must say it, I could scarcely think of anybody I
EVER met I'd rather dance with. When anybody's
step suits in with mine, that way, why, I LOVE to
dance straight through an evening with one person,
the way we're doing.''
Dimly, yet with strong repulsion, William
perceived that their interminable companionship
had begun to affect Miss Boke with a liking for
him. And as she chattered chummily on, revealing
this increasing cordiality all the while--
though her more obvious topics were dancing,
dancing-floors, and ``the lake''--the reciprocal
sentiment roused in his breast was that of Sindbad
the Sailor for the Old Man of the Sea.
He was unable to foresee a future apart from
her; and when she informed him that she preferred
his style of dancing to all other styles
shown by the Men at this party, her thus singling
him out for praise only emphasized, in his mind,,
that point upon which he was the most embittered.
``Yes!'' he reflected. ``It had to be ME!''
With all the crowd to choose from, Mrs. Parcher
had to go and pick on HIM! All, all the others
went about, free as air, flitting from girl to girl--
girls that danced like girls! All, all except
William, danced with Miss PRATT! What Miss Pratt
had offered HIM was a choice between the thirty-
second dance and the twenty-first extra. THAT
was what he had to look forward to: the thirty-
second reg'lar or the twenty-first extra!
Meanwhile, merely through eternity, he was
sealed unto Miss Boke.
The tie that bound them oppressed him as if
it had been an ill-omened matrimony, and he sat
beside her like an unwilling old husband. All
the while, Miss Boke had no appreciation whatever
of her companion's real condition, and, when
little, spasmodic, sinister changes appeared in his
face (as they certainly did from time to time) she
attributed them to pains in his ankle. However,
William decided to discard his ankle, after they
had ``sat out'' two dances on account of it. He
decided that he preferred dancing, and said he
guessed he must be better.
So they danced again--and again.
When the fourteenth dance came, about half
an hour before midnight, they were still dancing
together.
It was upon the conclusion of this fourteenth
dance that Mr. Parcher mentioned to his wife a
change in his feelings toward William. ``I've
been watching him,'' said Mr. Parcher, ``and I
never saw true misery show plainer. He's having
a really horrible time. By George! I hate him,
but I've begun to feel kind of sorry for him!
Can't you trot up somebody else, so he can get
away from that fat girl?''
Mrs. Parcher shook her head in a discouraged
way. ``I've tried, and I've tried, and I've tried!''
she said.
``Well, try again.''
``I can't now.'' She waved her hand toward
the rear of the house. Round the corner marched
a short procession of negroes, bearing trays; and
the dancers were dispersing themselves to chairs
upon the lawn ``for refreshments.''
``Well, do something,'' Mr. Parcher urged.
``We don't want to find him in the cistern in the
morning!''
Mrs. Parcher looked thoughtful, then brightened.
``_I_ know!'' she said. ``I'll make May and
Lola and their partners come sit in this little
circle of chairs here, and then I'll go and bring
Willie and Miss Boke to sit with them. I'll give Willie
the seat at Lola's left. You keep the chairs.''
Straightway she sped upon her kindly errand.
It proved successful, so successful, indeed, that
without the slightest effort--without even a hint
on her part--she brought not only William and
his constant friend to sit in the circle with Miss
Pratt, Miss Parcher and their escorts, but Mr.
Bullitt, Mr. Watson, Mr. Banks, and three other
young gentlemen as well. Nevertheless, Mrs.
Parcher managed to carry out her plan, and
after a little display of firmness, saw William
satisfactorily established in the chair at Miss Pratt's
left.
At last, at last, he sat beside the fairy-like
creature, and filled his lungs with infinitesimal
particles of violet scent. More: he was no sooner
seated than the little blonde head bent close to
his; the golden net brushed his cheek. She
whispered:
``No'ty ickle boy Batster! Lola's last night,
an' ickle boy Batster fluttin'! Flut all night wif
dray bid dirl!''
William made no reply.
There are occasions, infrequent, of course,
when even a bachelor is not flattered by being
accused of flirting. William's feelings toward
Miss Boke had by this time come to such a
pass that he, regarded the charge of flirting
with her as little less than an implication of
grave mental deficiency. And well he remembered
how Miss Pratt, beholding his subjugated
gymnastics in the dance, had grown pink with
laughter! But still the rose-leaf lips whispered:
``Lola saw! Lola saw bad boy Batster under
dray bid tree fluttin' wif dray bid dirl. Fluttin'
all night wif dray bid 'normous dirl!''
Her cruelty was all unwitting; she intended
to rally him sweetly. But seventeen is deathly
serious at such junctures, and William was in a
sensitive condition. He made no reply in words.
Instead, he drew himself up (from the waist,
that is, because he was sitting) with a kind of
proud dignity. And that was all.
``Oo tross?'' whispered Lola.
He spake not.
`` 'Twasn't my fault about dancing,'' she said.
``Bad boy! What made you come so late?''
He maintained his silence and the accompanying
icy dignity, whereupon she made a charming
little pout.
``Oo be so tross,'' she said, ``Lola talk to nice
Man uvver side of her!''
With that she turned her back upon him and
prattled merrily to the gentleman of sixteen upon
her right.
Still and cold sat William. Let her talk to the
Man at the other side of her as she would, and
never so gaily, William knew that she was conscious
every instant of the reproachful presence
upon her left. And somehow these moments of
quiet and melancholy dignity became the most
satisfactory he had known that evening. For as
he sat, so silent, so austere, and not yet eating,
though a plate of chicken salad had been placed
upon his lap, he began to feel that there was
somewhere about him a mysterious superiority
which set him apart from other people--and
above them. This quality, indefinable and lofty,
had carried him through troubles, that very
night, which would have wrecked the lives of
such simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnnie
Watson. And although Miss Pratt continued
to make merry with the Man upon her right, it
seemed to William that this was but outward
show. He had a strange, subtle impression that
the mysterious superiority which set him apart
from others was becoming perceptible to her--
that she was feeling it, too.
Alas! Such are the moments Fate seizes upon
to play the clown!
Over the chatter and laughter of the guests
rose a too familiar voice. ``Lemme he'p you to
nice tongue samwich, lady. No'm? Nice green
lettuce samwich, lady?''
Genesis!
``Nice tongue samwich, suh? Nice lettuce
samwich, lady?'' he could be heard vociferating--
perhaps a little too much as if he had
sandwiches for sale. ``Lemme jes' lay this nice
green lettuce samwich on you' plate fer you,
His wide-spread hand bore the tray of
sandwiches high overhead, for his style in waiting
was florid, though polished. He walked with a
faint, shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissome
pomposity adopted in obedience to the art-sense
within him which bade him harmonize himself
with occasions of state and fashion. His manner
was the super-supreme expression of graciousness,
but the graciousness was innocent, being but an
affectation and nothing inward--for inwardly
Genesis was humble. He was only pretending to
be the kind of waiter he would like to be.
And because he was a new waiter he strongly
wished to show familiarity with his duties--
familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody.
This yearning, born of self-doubt, and intensified
by a slight touch of gin, was beyond question
the inspiration of his painful behavior when
he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr.
and Mrs. Parcher, Miss Parcher, Miss Pratt,
Miss Boke, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others--and
William.
``Nice tongue samwich, lady!'' he announced,
semi-cake-walking beneath his high-borne tray.
Nice green lettuce sam--'' He came suddenly
to a dramatic dead-stop as he beheld William
sitting before him, wearing that strange new
dignity and Mr. Baxter's evening clothes. ``Name
o' goo'ness!'' Genesis exclaimed, so loudly that
every one looked up. ``How in the livin' worl'
you evuh come to git here? You' daddy sut'ny
mus' 'a' weakened 'way down 'fo' he let you
wear his low-cut ves' an' pants an' long-tail
coat! I bet any man fifty cents you gone an'
stole 'em out aftuh he done went to bed!''
And he burst into a wild, free African laugh.
At seventeen such things are not embarrassing;
they are catastrophical. But, mercifully,
catastrophes often produce a numbness in the
victims. More as in a trance than actually
William heard the outbreak of his young
companions; and, during the quarter of an hour
subsequent to Genesis's performance, the oft-
renewed explosions of their mirth made but a
kind of horrid buzzing in his ears. Like sounds
borne from far away were the gaspings of Mr.
and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their strength
to obtain mastery of themselves once more.
. . . A flourish of music challenged the
dancers. Couples appeared upon the platform.
The dreadful supper was over.
The ineffable One, supremely pink, rose from
her seat at William's side and moved toward the
platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt. Then
William, roused to action by this sight, sprang
to his feet and took a step toward them. But
it was only one weak step.
A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly
inside the crook of his elbow. ``Let's get started
for this one before the floor gets all crowded
up,'' said Miss Boke.
Miss Boke danced and danced with him; she
danced him on--and on--and on----
At half past one the orchestra played ``Home,
Sweet Home.'' As the last bars sounded, a
group of earnest young men who had surrounded
the lovely guest of honor, talking vehemently,
broke into loud shouts, embraced one another and
capered variously over the lawn. Mr. Parcher
beheld from a distance these manifestations, and
then, with an astonishment even more profound,
took note of the tragic William, who was running
toward him, radiant--Miss Boke hovering futilely
in the far background.
``What's all the hullabaloo?'' Mr. Parcher inquired.
``Miss Pratt!'' gasped William. ``Miss Pratt!''
``Well, what about her?''
And upon receiving William's reply, Mr.
Parcher might well have discerned behind it the
invisible hand of an ironic but recompensing
Providence making things even--taking from the
one to give to the other.
``She's going to stay!'' shouted the happy
William. ``She's promised to stay another
week!''
And then, mingling with the sounds of
rejoicing, there ascended to heaven the stricken
cry of an elderly man plunging blindly into the
house in search of his wife. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXVIII. RANNIE KIRSTED
Read previous: CHAPTER XXVI. MISS BOKE
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