Father Beret understood the conditions around him and had the
genius to know what not to hear, what not to see; but he never
failed when a good word or a fatherly touch with his hand seemed
worth trying on a sheep that appeared to be straying dangerously
far from the fold. Upon an occasion like this dance at the river
house, he was no less the faithful priest because of his genial
sympathy with the happiness of the young people who looked to him
for spiritual guidance.
It was some time before Beverley could again secure Alice for a
dance, and he found it annoying him atrociously to see her smile
sweetly on some buckskin-clad lout who looked like an Indian and
danced like a Parisian. He did not greatly enjoy most of his
partners; they could not appeal to any side of his nature just
then. Not that he at all times stood too much on his aristocratic
traditions, or lacked the virile traits common to vigorous and
worldly-minded men; but the contrast between Alice and the other
girls present was somehow an absolute bar to a democratic freedom
of the sort demanded by the occasion. He met Father Beret and
passed a few pleasant words with him.
"They have honored your flag, my son, I am glad to see," the
priest said, pointing with a smile to where, in one corner, the
banner that bore Alice's name was effectively draped.
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