"Is all well with you, Mr. Alwyn?" she asked lightly.
"No, I'm not enjoying myself," said Bles, truthfully.
"Delicious! And why not?"
He regarded her earnestly.
"There are so many things to talk about," he said; "earnest things;
things of importance. I--I think when our people--" he hesitated.
Our?--was _our_ right? But he went on: "When our people meet we ought
to talk of our situation, and what to do and--"
Miss Wynn continued to smile.
"We're all talking of it all the time," she said.
He looked incredulous.
"Yes, we are," she insisted. "We veil it a little, and laugh as lightly
as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that's grave
and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic."
"But I don't understand."
"Ah, there's the rub. You haven't learned our language yet. We don't
just blurt into the Negro Problem; that's voted bad form. We leave that
to our white friends. We saunter to it sideways, touch it delicately
because"--her face became a little graver--"because, you see, it hurts."
Bles stood thoughtful and abashed.
"I--I think I understand," he gravely said at last.
"Come here," she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed
group in the midst of a conversation.
"--Thinking of sending Jessie to Bryn Mawr," Bles heard Miss Jones
saying.
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