her stripe from arid New
Englanders encased in their temperamental calm, the women, in a
laughable self-satisfaction, leading the intellectual life and their men
set on "making good". The poorest child of the East and South had an
inheritance that made him responsive, fluent, even while it left him
hot-headed and even froward. There was something, he saw, in this idea
of the melting-pot, if only the mingling could be managed by gods that
saw the future. You couldn't make a wonder of a bell if you poured your
metal into an imperfect mould. The mould must be flawless and the metal
cunningly mixed; and then how clear the tone, how resonant! It wasn't
the tarantella only that led him this long wandering. It was the quality
of the dancers; and through all the changing steps and measures Anne and
Lydia, too, were moving, Lydia a joyous leader in the temperamental rush
and swing.

Mrs. Choate, stately in dark silk and lace and quite unlike the
revolutionary matron who had lain in bed and let her soul loose with the
"Mysteries of Paris," sat between her son and daughter and was silent
though she grew bright-eyed. Mary whispered to her:

"Anne looks very sweet, doesn't she? but not at all like a dancer."

"Sweet," said the mother.

"Anne doesn't belong there, does she?" said Alston.

"No," said the mother. "Lydia does."

"Yes."

Alston, too, was moved by the spectacle, but he thought dove-like Anne
far finer in the rout than gipsy Lydia. His mother followed his thoughts
exactly, but while she placidly agreed, it was Lydia she inwardly
envied, Lydia who had youth and a hot heart and not too much scruple to
keep her from giving each their way.

When it was over, Jeff waited for Anne and Lydia, to carry home their
parcels. He stood for a moment beside Andrea, and Andrea regarded him
with that absurd devotion he exuded for The Prisoner. Jeff smiled at him
even affectionately, though quizzically. He wished he knew what picture
of him was under Andrea's skull. A sudden impulse seized him to make the
man his confidant.

"Andrea," said he, "I want you fellows to act plays with me."

Andrea looked enchanted.

"What play?" he asked.

"Shakespeare," said Jeff. "In English. That's your language, Andrea, if
you're going to live here."

Andrea's face died into a dull denial. A sort of glaze even seemed to
settle over the surface of his eyes. He gave a perfunctory grunt, and
Jeff caught him up on it.

"Won't she allow it?" h