this exhibition for one evening. Have you, she demanded, as she stirred her coffee, read John Bolivar's new story?
Hester, who was passing sandwiches, replied to this question which had not been addressed to her. Oh, she averred, I have. What a vulgar story! How can he write about such vulgar people? Why, even here in Harlem there are plenty of doctors and lawyers and in Washington we have a real society. I don't see any use of dragging up all that muck. Nobody wants to read about that.
I quite agree with you, Orville said. Quite. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Mary smiled in spite of herself. Perhaps, she urged, in a mild attempt to defend the absent author, the milieu he describes is more novel and picturesque than that which surrounds the life of a physician or a lawyer.
Why, Mary, how can you say such a thing? Hester demanded. I think it is shameless.
Mary was desperate. Won't you sing, Webb? she pleaded.
Oh, oui. Chantez, s'il vous plaît, chantez! piped Orville.
Webb sings so well, Hester informed the bashful Gladbrooks. Mrs. Gladbrook giggled.
Fetching his music-roll from the hall, Webb went to the upright piano. There, after considerable fumbling, he selected a piece of music, and began to sing, playing his own accompaniment:
