Quicksand
“They‘re not being made,” contradicted Mrs. Hayes-Rore. “I intended to let them have the money anyway, and I‘ll tell Mr. Darling so after he takes you. They ought to be glad to get you. Colored organizations always need more brains as well as more money. Don‘t worry. And don‘t thank me again. You haven‘t got the job yet, you know.”
There was a little silence, during which Helga gave herself up to the distraction of watching the strange city and the strange crowds, trying hard to put out of her mind the vision of an easier future which her companion‘s words had conjured up; for, as had been pointed out, it was, as yet, only a possibility.
Turning out of the park into the broad thoroughfare of Lenox Avenue, Mrs. Hayes-Rore said in a too carefully casual manner: “And, by the way, I wouldn‘t mention that my people are white, if I were you. Colored people won‘t understand it, and after all it‘s your own business. When you‘ve lived as long as I have,
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