The crowd is made up of dusky belles from the tribes of the Athabasca, Slave, and Mackenzie Rivers; many braves, and some few white men whom I pretend not to recognize. I am like the man Herrick writes about, "One of the crowd; not of the company."
The dancing is of a primitive order not unlike the natural movement which street children make to the strains of the hurdy-gurdy.
In higher circles, it is known by the name of the turkey-trot. Scientists classify it under the more dignified appellation of "neuromuscular co-ordination."
As compared with a ball, say at Government House, this one has some marked peculiarities. There are no chaperones, no refreshments, many sitting-out places, and it is wholly in the dark save for the light of a tolerant and somewhat remote moon.
A white woman who watches it is considered by the men of her own race to be one of five things—stupid, innocent, mean, obstinate, or unduly curious, whereas to be accurate she may only be a conscientious scribe.
CHAPTER XVII
A COUNTRY WOMAN AT THE CITY RACES
Still do our jaded pulses bound
Remembering that eager race.—R. W. GILBERT.
This favour would never have come to me if I had not found a two-eyed peacock feather in the paddock. It isn't reasonable to suppose that a simple, country-bred person from back Alberta-way could have such story-book luck on her first wager. La-la-la!