Mary was measuring the coffee. It is nice, isn't it?
Great! Luxury for me. I'm living in a dump.
Mary filled the pot with water. What kind of things do you want to write about? she inquired.
Oh, I don't know. You've got awfully pretty arms.
Have I? Haven't you anything definite in mind?
What everybody writes about, I guess. Love, and all that. I thought of writing a story about a coloured girl in love with a white boy and how he ditched her.
Madam Butterfly, Mary murmured. As she lighted the fire under the coffee-pot, she looked at him hard. Why don't you write about us? she demanded.
Us?
Yes, Negroes.
Why, we're not very different from any one else except in colour. I don't see any difference.
I suppose we aren't, Mary spoke thoughtfully. And yet figures stand out.
Figures?
Do you know anything about Christophe? It seems to me that the story of Christophe would make a gorgeous subject for a novel.
Who was Christophe?
They were seated on chairs in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to boil.
Born and raised in slavery on the Island of Saint-
