The children of
that group of families which formed the monied aristocracy of the
city knew only their own small circle. They met at dancing classes,
where governesses and occasionally mothers sat around the walls,
while the little girls, in handmade white frocks of exquisite
simplicity, their shining hair drawn back and held by ribbon bows,
made their prim little dip at the door before entering, and the
boys, in white Eton collars and gleaming pumps, bowed from the
waist and then dived for the masculine corner of the long room.
No little girl ever intruded on that corner, although now and then
a brave spirit among the boys would wander, with assumed
unconsciousness but ears rather pink, to the opposite corner where
the little girls were grouped like white butterflies milling in the
sun.
The pianist struck a chord, and the children lined up, the girls on
one side, the boys on the other, a long line, with Mrs. Van Buren
in the center. Another chord, rather a long one. Mrs. Van Buren
curtsied to the girls. The line dipped, wavered, recovered itself.
Mrs. Van Buren turned. Another chord. The boys bent, rather too
much, from the waist, while Mrs.
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