He grew so proud of her that on Sundays and some week-days when they drove he would always have her in between them. He insisted that Jennie send her to dancing-school, and Gerhardt was beside himself with rage and grief. “Such irreligion!” he complained to Jennie. “Such devil’s fol-de-rol. Now she goes to dance. What for? To make a no-good out of her—a creature to be ashamed of?”
“Oh no, papa,” replied Jennie. “It isn’t as bad as that. This is an awful nice school. Lester says she has to go.”
“Lester, Lester; that man! A fine lot he knows about what is good for a child. A card-player, a whisky-drinker!”
“Now, hush, papa; I won’t have you talk like that,” Jennie would reply warmly. “He’s a good man, and you know it.”
“Yes, yes, a good man. In some things, maybe. Not in this. No.”
He went away groaning. When Lester was near he said nothing, and Vesta could wind him around her finger.
“Oh you,” she would say, pulling at his arm or rubbing his grizzled cheek. There was no more fight in Gerhardt when Vesta did this. He lost control of himself—something welled up and choked his throat. “Yes, I know how you do,” he would exclaim.
Vesta would tweak his ear.
“Stop now!” he would say. “That is enough.”
It was noticeable, however, that she did not have to stop unless she herself willed it. Gerhardt adored the child, and she could do anything with him; he was always her devoted servitor.