nothing conspicuous about him. Baldish, dim, quiet, he was an
unnoticeable part of this festival, and although there were a dozen or
more middle-aged men present, not casually to be distinguished from
him in general aspect, he was probably the last person in the big
house at whom a stranger would have glanced twice. It did not enter
George's mind to mention to Miss Morgan that this was his father, or
to say anything whatever about him.

Mr. Minafer shook his son's hand unobtrusively in passing.

"I'll take Uncle John home," he said, in a low voice. "Then I guess
I'll go on home myself--I'm not a great hand at parties, you know.
Good-night, George."

George murmured a friendly enough good-night without pausing.
Ordinarily he was not ashamed of the Minafers; he seldom thought about
them at all, for he belonged, as most American children do, to the
mother's family--but he was anxious not to linger with Miss Morgan in
the vicinity of old John, whom he felt to be a disgrace.

He pushed brusquely through the fringe of calculating youths who were
gathered in the arches, watching for chances to dance only with girls
who would soon be taken off their hands, and led his stranger lady out
upon the floor. They caught the time instantly, and were away in the
waltz.

George danced well, and Miss Morgan seemed to float as part of the
music, the very dove itself of "La Paloma." They said nothing as they
danced; her eyes were cast down all the while--the prettiest gesture
for a dancer--and there was left in the universe, for each, of them,