“No.” She didn’t care to discuss this. “I was lonesome, I guess.”
“Weren’t there any other colored boys and girls? I thought. . . .”
Emma Lou spoke curtly. “Oh, yes, quite a number, but I suppose I didn’t mix well.”
The waiter came to take the order for dessert, and Emma Lou seized upon the fact that Mrs. Blake ordered sliced oranges to talk about California’s orange groves, California’s sunshine—anything but the California college she had attended and from which she had fled. In vain did Mrs. Blake try to maneuver the conversation back to Emma Lou’s college experiences. She would have none of it and Mrs. Blake was finally forced to give it up.
When they were finished, Mrs. Blake insisted upon taking the check. This done, she began to talk about jobs.
“You know, Miss Morgan, good jobs are rare. It is seldom I have anything to offer outside of the domestic field. Most Negro business offices are family affairs. They either get their help from within their own family group or from among their friends. Then, too,” Emma Lou noticed that Mrs. Blake did not look directly at her, “lots of our Negro business men have a definite type of girl in mind and will not hire any other.”
