"Oh, no," he answered deftly; "not very." And as they moved toward the
dining-room Mary changed the subject.
"Oh," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "There is a man--a colored
man--waiting to see you in the back hall, but I guess he can wait until
after lunch."
They ate leisurely.
"There's going to be racing out at the park this evening," said Harry.
"Want to go?"
"I was going to hear an art lecture at the Club," Mary returned, and
grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. Of course, the Club
was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort, but
today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of European
reputation was going to lecture, and Mary preferred it to the company of
the race track. And--just as certainly--her husband didn't.
"Don't forget the man, dear," she reminded him; but he was buried in his
paper, frowning.
"Look at that," he said finally. She glanced at the
head-lines--"Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at
Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama."
"Why, it's Bles!" she said, her face lighting as his darkened.
"An impudent Negro," he voiced his disgust. "If they must appoint
darkies why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings."
"Stillings?" she repeated. "Why, he's the man that's waiting."
"Sam, is it? Used to be one of our servants--you remember? Wants to
borrow more money, I presume.
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