They swept into the avenue and out again, then
up 14th Street, where, turning for some street obstruction, they passed
a throng of carriages on a cross street.
"It's the other ball," cried Mrs. Vanderpool, and amid laughter she
added, "Let's go!"
It was--the other ball. For Washington is itself, and something else
besides. Along beside it ever runs that dark and haunting echo; that
shadowy world-in-world with its accusing silence, its emphatic
self-sufficiency. Mrs. Cresswell at first demurred. She thought of
Elspeth's cabin: the dirt, the smell, the squalor: of course, this would
be different; but--well, Mrs. Cresswell had little inclination for
slumming. She was interested in the under-world, but intellectually, not
by personal contact. She did not know that this was a side-world, not an
under-world. Yet the imposing building did not look sordid.
"Hired?" asked some one.
"No, owned."
"Indeed!"
Then there was a hitch.
"Tickets?"
"Where can we buy them?"
"Not on sale," was the curt reply.
"Actually exclusive!" sneered Cresswell, for he could not imagine any
one unwelcome at a Negro ball. Then he bethought himself of Sam
Stillings and sent for him. In a few minutes he had a dozen
complimentary tickets in his hand.
They entered the balcony and sat down. Mary Cresswell leaned forward.
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