she was unaware of the identity of the person to whom Adora referred.
In a minute. This afternoon. Neglecting the glasses of her guests—Mary's, as a matter of fact, remained nearly full—she offered herself another libation, whereupon the sycophants scowled.
Mary's conflicting emotions did not permit her to speak at once.
Well, Mary, what do you say?
If you don't mind, Adora. . . . If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.
Nonsense! . . . There came a loud knocking at the door. . . . More of those Niggers! Go see who it is, Piqua, Adora ordered.
It's Ran and Al.
Adora's expression softened. It was even tender. Oh, they can come in, she said.
The fat Bolito King, his smug, brown countenance wreathed in a wrinkled smile, his eyes assisted by a pince-nez, set in gold, entered, followed by a slender tea-coloured youth, in a blue flannel coat, white trousers, and sneakers.'
Well, boys, just in time for a little fizz-water, Adora cried.
We was lookin' fo' you an' et, the King admitted.
More particularly for you, Al added.
Well, for that you can both have a drink out of my glass, Adora suggested. Here's yours. She passed the glass to Al who drained the remnant at one gulp. Adora inverted the bottle. Only a few
