international politics. They are as much at home in Rome, Paris and
London as they are in New York, and are as familiar with Scotland as
Long Island. They constantly amaze me by the apparent scope of their
information.

They are women of the world in a sense unheard of by my father's
generation. They have been presented at court in London, Berlin and
Rome, and have had a social season at Cairo; in fact I feel at a great
personal disadvantage in talking with them. They are respectful, very
sweet in a self-controlled and capable sort of way, and, so far as I can
see, need no assistance in looking out for themselves. They seem to be
quite satisfied with their mode of life. They do as they choose, and ask
for no advice from either their mother or myself.

My boy also leads his own life. He is rarely at home except to sleep. I
see less of him than of my daughters. During the day he is at the
office, where he is learning to be a lawyer. At wide intervals we lunch
together; but I find that he is interested in things which do not appeal
to me at all. Just at present he has become an expert--almost a
professional--dancer to syncopated music. I hear of him as dancing for
charity at public entertainments, and he is in continual demand for
private theatricals and parties. He is astonishingly clever at it.

Yet I cannot imagine Daniel Webster or Rufus Choate dancing in public
even in their leisure moments. Perhaps, however, it is better for him to
dance than to do some other things. It is good exercise; and, to be fair
with him, I cannot imagine Choate or Webster playing bridge or taking
scented baths. But, frankly, it is a far cry from my clergyman
grandfather to my ragtime dancing offspring. Perhaps, however, the
latter will serve his generation in his own way.