Emma Lou’s room in the Y. W. C. A. at three o’clock that same morning. Emma Lou busy packing her clothes. Geraldine in negligee, hair disarrayed, eyes sleepy, yet angry:
“You mean you're going over there to live with that man?”
“Why not? I love him.”
Geraldine stared hard at Emma Lou. “But don’t you understand he’s just tryin’ to find some one to take care of that brat of his? Don’t be silly, Emma Lou. He doesn’t really care for you. If he did, he never would have deserted you as you once told me he did, or have subjected you to all those insults. And . . . he isn’t your type of man. Why, he’s nothing but a. . .”
“Will you mind tending to your own business, Gwendolyn,” her purple powdered skin was streaked with tears.
“But what about your appointment?”
“I shall take it.”
“What!” She forgot her weariness. “You mean to say you're going to teach school and live with that man, too? Ain’t you got no regard for your reputation? I wouldn’t ruin myself for no yaller nigger. Here you're doing just what folks say a black gal always does. Where is your intelligence and pride? I’m through with you, Emma Lou. There’s probably
