Bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his
heart with sickening hopeless weight. His hands got in the way and he
found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully furnished rooms.
Once he discovered himself standing by a marble statue of a nude woman,
and he edged away; then he stumbled over a rug and saved himself only to
step on Miss Jones's silken train. Miss Jones's smile of pardon was
wintry. When he did approach a group and listen, they seemed speaking of
things foreign to him--usually of people he did not know, their homes,
their doings, their daughters and their fathers. They seemed to know
people intimately who lived far away.
"You mean the Smiths of Boston?" asked Miss Jones.
"No, of Cleveland. They're not related."
"I heard that McGhee of St. Paul will be in the city next week with his
daughter."
"Yes, and the Bentleys of Chicago."
Bles passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to say, of
mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these people and
crying: "Ho! What of the morning? How goes the great battle for black
men's rights? I have came with messages from the host, to you who guard
the mountain tops."
Apparently they were not discussing or caring about "the Problem." He
grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his
hostess.
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