“No. I was taught when I was very young; but I have never danced except to please father and his friends.”
This was a relief, and some kind of an excuse. He felt not quite such a reprobate; but again he reflected that when he was looking at her he did not know that she was not in a theatre every night in the week. He expected that Jean would offer some further explanation of the unusual accomplishment which his daughter had acquired; but he was silent, and Zachariah rose to depart, for it was eleven o’clock. Jean apparently was a little restless at the absence of approval on Zachariah’s part, and at last he said abruptly:
“What do you think of her?”
Zachariah hesitated, and Pauline came to the rescue. “Father, what a shame! Don’t put him in such an awkward position.”
“It was very wonderful,” stammered Zachariah, “but we are not used to that kind of thing.”
“Who are the ‘we’?” said Pauline. “Ah, of course you are Puritans. I am a—what do you call it?—a daughter, no, that isn’t it—a child of the devil. I won’t have that though. My father isn’t the devil. Even you wouldn’t say that, Mr. Coleman. Ah, I have no business to joke, you look so solemn; you think my tricks are satanic; but what was it in your book, ‘C’est moi, l’Eternel, qui fais toutes les choses là’?” and as Zachariah advanced to the doors he made him a bow with a grace which no lady of quality could have surpassed.
He walked home with many unusual thoughts. It was the first time he had ever been in the company of a woman of any liveliness of temperament, and with an intellect which was on equal terms with that of a man. In his own Calvinistic Dissenting society the pious women who were members of the church took little or no interest in the mental life of their husband. They read no books, knew nothing of politics, were astonishingly ignorant, and lived in their household duties. To be with a woman who could stand up against him was a new experience. Here was a girl to whom every thought her father possessed was familiar!
But there was another experience. From his youth upwards he had been trained with every weapon in the chapel armoury, and yet he now found himself as powerless as the merest novice to prevent the very sinful occupation of dwelling upon every attitude of Pauline, and outlining every one of her limbs. Do what he might, her image was for ever before his eyes, and reconstructed itself after every attempt to abolish it, just as a reflected image in a pool slowly but inevitably gathers itself together again after each disturbance of the water. When he got home, he found, to his surprise, that his wife was still sitting up. She had been to the weekly prayer-meeting, and was not in a very pleasant temper. She was not spiteful, but unusually frigid. She felt herself to be better than her husband, and she asked him if he could not arrange in future that his political meetings might not interfere with his religious duties.
“Your absence, too, was noticed, and Mrs. Carver asked me how it was that Mr. Coleman could let me go home alone. She offered to tell Mr. Carver to come home with me; but I refused.”
Delightfully generous of Mrs. Carver! That was the sort of kindness for which she and many of her Pike Street friends were so distinguished; and Mrs. Coleman not only felt it deeply, but was glad of the opportunity of letting Mr. Coleman know how good the Carvers were.