She felt that in some way she was responsible for this
dreadful situation and she wanted desperately to save matters from final
disaster.
"Come," she said, "Mrs. Grey, we'll talk this matter over again later. I
am sure Miss Smith does not mean quite all she says--she is tired and
nervous. You join the others and don't wait for me and I will be along
directly."
Mrs. Grey was only too glad to escape and Mr. Bocombe got a chance to
talk. He drew out his note-book.
"Awfully interesting," he said, "awfully. Now--er--let's see--oh, yes.
Did you notice how unhealthy the children looked? Race is undoubtedly
dying out; fact. No hope. Weak. No spontaneity either--rather languid,
did you notice? Yes, and their heads--small and narrow--no brain
capacity. They can't concentrate; notice how some slept when Dr. Boldish
was speaking? Mr. Cresswell says they own almost no land here; think of
it? This land was worth only ten dollars an acre a decade ago, he says.
Negroes might have bought all and been rich. Very shiftless--and that
singing. Now, I wonder where they got the music? Imitation, of course."
And so he rattled on, noting not the silence of the others.
As the carriage drove off Mary turned to Miss Smith.
"Now, Miss Smith," she began--but Miss Smith looked at her, and said
sternly, "Sit down."
Mary Taylor sat down.
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