dressed as it was possible for a gentleman to be, he still studied me
dubiously, when he thought I wasn't seeing him. And I recall that he said
once: "It's your face, Blacklock. If you could only manage to look less
like a Spanish bull dashing into the ring, gazing joyfully about for
somebody to gore and toss!"

"But I can't," said I. "And I wouldn't if I could--because that's
_me_!"

One Saturday he brought a dancing master down to my country place--Dawn
Hill, which I bought of the Dumont estate and completely remodeled. I saw
what the man's business was the instant I looked at him. I left him in the
hall and took Monson into my den.

"Not for me!" I protested. "There's where I draw the line."

"You don't understand," he urged. "This fellow, this Alphonse Lynch, out in
the hall there, isn't going to teach you dancing so that you may dance, but
so that you shall be less awkward in strange company."

"My walk suits me," said I. "And I don't fall over furniture or trip people
up."

"True enough," he answered. "But you haven't the complete control of your
body that'll make you unconscious of it when you're suddenly shot by a
butler into a room full of people you suspect of being unfriendly and
critical."

Not until he used his authority as trainer-in-full-charge, did I yield. It
may seem absurd to some for a serious man like me solemnly to caper about