"From Mr. Lamb?"
"No; from the coon chauffeur."
"Walter!" she gasped.
"Sure I do! I can get it any night when the coon isn't goin' to use it himself. He's drivin' their limousine to-night—that little Henrietta Lamb's goin' to the party, no matter if her father has only been dead less'n a year!" He paused, then inquired: "Well, how d'you like it?"
She did not speak, and he began to be remorseful for having imparted so much information, though his way of expressing regret was his own. "Well, you will make the folks make me take you to parties!" he said. "I got to do it the best way I can, don't I?"
Then as she made no response, "Oh, the car's clean enough," he said. "This coon, he's as particular as any white man; you needn't worry about that." And as she still said nothing, he added gruffly, "I'd of had a better car if I could afforded it. You needn't get so upset about it."
"I don't understand—" she said in a low voice—"I don't understand how you know such people."
"Such people as who?"
"As—coloured chauffeurs."
