"Now, the chain." The whistle blew.
"Left and right, left and right." In spite of this there was an equal
engagement of rights with lefts. The assumption of gravity acutely
bothered Lee Randon: they had no business, he thought, to be already
such social animals. Their training in set forms, mechanical gestures
and ideas, was too soon hardening their mobility and instinctive
independence. Yes, they were a caricature of what they were to become.
He hadn't more sympathy with what he had resolved to encourage,
applaud, but less. The task of making any headway against that
schooling was beyond him.
The dancing reached a pause, and, with it, the silence: a confusion of
clear undiversified voices rose: the face of an infant with long belled
trousers and solidified hair took on a gleam of impish humor; older and
more robust boys scuffled together with half-subdued hails and large
pretentions; groups of girls settled their skirts and brushed, with
instinctive pats, their braids into order; and there was a murmur of
exchanged approbation from the supporting, white-gloved mothers.
Gregory appeared at Lee's side; his cheeks were crimson with health,
his serious eyes glowed:
"Well, do you like it?"
"Yes," Gregory answered shyly. He lingered while Lee Randon tried to
think of something else appropriate to say, and then he ran abruptly
off. His children were affectionate enough, but they took him
absolutely for granted; they regarded him very much as they did their
cat; except for the conventional obeisance they made him, not so
voluntary as it was trained into them, they were far more involved with
Martha, their black nurse.
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