The glasses of Mrs. St. Paris and Mrs. Scribner were conspicuously empty, their expressions eager, their arms all but outstretched. Overlooking this condition, Adora filled her own glass and continued in her rich, steady voice, low and musical, and with the commanding presence she had acquired during her career on the stage: There's an old song which I used to hear when I toured the South: Ain't it hard to be a Nigger? Ever hear it? Without waiting for a reply, Adora lay back in her chair and began to croon:
Ain't it hard to be a Nigger, Nigger, Nigger?
Ain't it hard, ain't it hard?
Fo' you can't git yo' money when it's due.
Well, I guess it is, though it partly depends on the way you look at it. It's hard for those who don't face facts. Now, I always do just that. Mary, she went on earnestly, almost pleadingly, I wish you'd get married.
Why, Adora, what can I do if nobody wants me? Mary tried to laugh off her embarrassment.
Well, you know as well as I do there's a certain party round here that's pretty crazy to get you.
Mary regarded her hostess with unfeigned astonishment.
You don't think he wants to marry me? she queried, too dumfounded to make any pretence that
