Miss Canby's rendition on the piano, of what she was pleased to call “A sweet little thing of Tschaikovsky's—one of my favorites,” was enthusiastically applauded, and she obliged with another, and still another. Then Mr. Abercrombie was prevailed upon to read one of his own outpourings of genius, a poem called “The Tigress,” in which someone, presumably the author, described the torments involved in his adoration of a feminine person with “jetty brows and lambent eyes,” whose kiss was like “a viper's sting” and who had, so to speak, raised the very dickens with his feelings. He read it with passionate fervor, and Captain Dan, listening, decided that the Tigress must be a most unpleasant person.
However, judging by the acclaim of the rest of the audience, she was a huge success, and the poet was coaxed into reading again, this time something which he had labeled “Soul Beams,” and in which “love” rhymed with “dove” and “heart” with “dart” and “bliss” with “kiss” in truly orthodox fashion. Mr. Abercrombie's poetic gems were not appreciated by the mercenary and groveling minions who edited magazines, but here, amid his fellow Bohemians, they were more than appreciated, a fact which their creator announced gratified him more than he could express. And yet, he seemed to have little difficulty and less hesitation in expressing most things.
Daniel was not enthusiastic over the poems. He could not understand a great deal of them, but he understood quite enough. When B. Phelps Black winked at him from his seat at the other side of the room, he did not return the wink, although he knew perfectly well what it meant.
The poems were bad enough, according to his figuring, but when Miss Beatrice Dusante tripped into the circle to slip and twist and slide and gyrate in “one of her delightful Grecian dances,” he found himself looking about for a convenient exit. Discovering none he remained where he was and blushed for the company.
The Bohemians, however, did not blush; neither, to his amazement, did Serena, who looked on and applauded with the rest. He found some comfort in the absence of his daughter, who was not among the seated guests, but, at last, even this comfort was dispelled. He caught a glimpse of Gertrude, still accompanied by the attentive Mr. Holway, standing in the back row. He tried to catch her eye and, by frowns and shakes of the head, to indicate his disapproval of the dance and her presence as a witness. He did not succeed in attracting her attention, but when, a moment later, she and her escort moved off, he was somewhat relieved. Gertrude looked as if she did not care for Miss Dusante's dancing any more than he did. Mr. Hungerford, also, did not appear interested. He was looking at Miss Dott and “Monty,” and there was a frown on his face.
Upon their return, after they were together in the library at home, Daniel's shocked indignation burst forth.
“Well!” he declared, “that's enough. That's the limit, that is! What kind of a gang IS that, anyway?”
His wife regarded him with astonishment. Gertrude, after one glance at his face, turned and walked to the other side of the room, where she busied herself with a book on the table. Cousin Percy smiled broadly.
“Gang!” repeated Serena. “Gang! Why, what are you talking about, Daniel?”
“I'm talkin' about that gang at that Canby woman's place to-night. I never saw such a brazen gang anywhere. Haven't they got ANY respectability? How'd they come to let that dancin' thing in there? Couldn't they see her before she got in? Couldn't they stop her? Why—”