all, he might as well go to see Captain Renfrew. He owed the old gentleman some thanks—and ten dollars.
The only thing of which Peter Siner was aware during his walk over the Big Hill and through the village was his last scene with Cissie. He went over it again and again, repeating their conversation, inventing new replies, framing new action, questioning more fully into the octoroon’s vague confession and his benumbed acceptance of it. The moment his mind completed the little drama it started again from the very beginning.
At Captain Renfrew’s gate this mental mummery paused long enough for him to vacillate between walking in or going around and shouting from the back gate. It is a point of etiquette in Hooker’s Bend that negroes shall enter a white house from the back stoop. Peter had no desire to transgress this custom. On the other hand, if Captain Renfrew was receiving him as a fellow of Harvard, the back door, in its way, would prove equally embarrassing.
After a certain indecision he compromised by entering the front gate and calling the Captain’s name from among the scattered bricks of the old walk.
The house lay silent, half smothered in a dark tangle of shrubbery. Peter called twice before he heard the shuffle of house slippers, and then saw the Captain’s dressing-gown at the piazza steps.
“Is that you, Peter?” came a querulous voice.
“Yes, Captain. I was told you wanted to see me.”
