my son,” proceeded the voice, “an' de whole Dildine fambly 'll bear watchin'.”
“Won't you have a seat?” asked Peter, exquisitely uncomfortable.
Cissie handed him her plate in confusion.
“Why, no, Mr. Siner,” she hastened on, in her careful grammar, “I just—ran over to—”
“To fling herse'f in a nigger's face 'cause he's been North and got made a fool uv,” boomed the hidden censor.
“I must go now,” gasped Cissie.
Peter made a harried gesture.
“Wait—wait till I get my hat.”
He put the plate down with a swift glance around for his hat. He found it, and strode to the door, following the girl. The two hurried out into the street, followed by indistinct strictures from the kitchen. Cissie breathed fast, with open lips. They moved rapidly along the semicircular street almost with a sense of flight. The heat of the early autumn sun stung them through their clothes. For some distance they walked in a nervous silence, then Cissie said:
“Your mother certainly hates me, Peter.”
“No,” said Peter, trying to soften the situation; “it's me; she's terribly hurt about—” he nodded toward the white section—“that business.”
Cissie opened her clear brown eyes.
“Your own mother turned against you!”
