"No," the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again. "No; I ain't seen de Doc since—but I seen Pale Face. Say, Helena"—the Flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent—"wot's de answer I dunno; I dunno wot's de matter here. Say"—he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned toward then as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard—"he's got me fer fair—dere ain't no fake here—dis way ter live is de real t'ing—he ain't like you an' me—he's more'n dat—look at him now—youse'd t'ink he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. I dunno wot's de end—I dunno wot's de matter wid me. I was scared more'n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an' I thought mabbe God 'ud strike me dead—but 'tain't only dat I'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't only dat—I don't wanter any more, an' it don't make no difference about de dough—I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same—same as Mamie. Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in love—in—in de real t'ing?"
Helena's apathy was gone now—a flush dyed her cheeks. She was not startled at what the Flopper had said—she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself—she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was. The end! She too had been thinking about that—and she too did not know. What was the end?
