She's the berries at that, was Olive's comment. Better undam your itches for her, Monte!
I'm too blue for that pink-chaser. She's just unsheiked her husband. He was too blue too. Well, he added, I'm off, as the jim crow flies!
Who was that? Byron inquired.
Montrose Esbon—teaches French in a High School. I keep forgetting that you don't know everybody.
He's an amusing fellow—not much like a teacher.
He doesn't unload his French on the dancing public, said Olive.
What did he mean by calling that girl the Harlem Hedda Gabler?
She's unhappy because she isn't white, Mary explained.
Unhappy! She's positively glum! Olive elaborated. Funny thing about those pink-chasers, the ofays never seem to have any use for them. Hey! Hey! Do that thing! Here's another tune!
Dance it with me, urged Byron.
Boy, I'm your willing victim. She slipped into his arms and they disappeared in the crowd.
Well, Mary, aren't you dancing with me? Howard demanded.
She stood for a moment confused. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her to make allowances for the fact that Byron would occasionally dance with some one besides her. Of course, she might have known
