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he had wandered from their practice. And here was this child, scarcely turned toward womanhood, daring to offer her father a cigarette, daring to strike a match pertly and light one for herself, here in this old Silver house, where grandmothers of four generations had been ladies , and where dear Aunt Lavinia had taught him his golden texts every Sunday morning—taught him about purity and righteousness. Oh, it was all her sweet, blind innocence—her ignorance of the world, of course, yet sweet and wonderful. And to have this child— his child —transgressing the old order in her playful, brazen way! It was too terrible! His child! Flesh of his flesh!
    “Athalie!”
    “Oh, don’t you smoke? I thought all real men smoked. Lilla said” She pursed her lips and lifted her cigarette prettily.
    “Athalie!” he thundered. “Never mind what your mother said! Don’t you dare to smoke in this house! Don’t you ever let me see you—”
    “Oh, very well! Shall I go outside? Perhaps you’ll take a little walk down the street with me—”
    The child was angry. There were sparks in her dark eyes. She looked very much like the old Lilla he knew so well. This was not the way to handle her. He was bungling everything. What should he do? He must establish his authority. The court had handed her over to his charge. What a mistake! He should have had her when she was young if he was ever to hope to do anything with her. But he must do something . He reached out suddenly and took possession of the cigarette and case before the surprised girl had time to protest.
    “Those are not fit things for a young girl to have,” he said sternly. “While you are under my protection it must not happen again. Do you understand?”
    She pouted. “You wouldn’t talk!”
    “I can’t talk to you while you look like that,” he said with a note of desperation in his voice. “Go upstairs and wash your face. And haven’t you got some less outlandish clothes? You look like a circus child. I’m ashamed to look at you!”
    He stepped to the wall and rang a bell, while Athalie, after staring at him in utter dismay, burst into sudden and appalling tears. Almost simultaneously Anne Truesdale appeared at the door with a white, frightened face looking from one to the other. Patterson Greeves felt a distinct wish that a portion of the floor might open and swallow him forever, but he endeavored to face the situation like a Silver and a master in his own house.
    “This is my daughter Athalie, Mrs. Truesdale, and she wished to wash her face and change her apparel. Will you kindly show her to a room and see that her bags are brought up and that she has everything she needs? I did not expect her to arrive so soon or I would have given you warning. It was my intention to keep her in school—”
    “Oh–h–h–h!” moaned Athalie into a scrap of green-and-black bordered handkerchief—”O–hhhhh!”
    Anne Truesdale looked at the plump tailored shoulders as she might have looked at a stray cat that she was told to put out of the room and then rose to the occasion. She slid a firm but polite arm around the reluctant guest and drew her from the room, and Patterson Greeves shut the library door and dropped with a groan into his chair, burying his face in his hands and wishing he had never been born. Somehow the sight of his daughter weeping, with her foolish frizzled hair and her fat, flesh-colored silk legs in their flapping galoshes, being led away by “Trudie,” as he always used to call the housekeeper, made him suddenly recognize her for what she was. She was a flapper! The most despicable thing known to girlhood, according to his bred and inherited standards. The thing that all the newspapers and magazines held in scorn and dread; the thing that all noted people were writing about and trying to eradicate; the thing they were afraid of and bowed to and let be; and his child was a flapper !
    Just as, after long and careful study, a new specimen would