rich. Her hair, parted and smoothed over her forehead, was caught in a low knot just above the nape of her neck. She could not, justifiably, complain about her appearance. Her expression, too, she recognized with pleasure, was lighter, more carefree. What a fool I have been, she assured herself, not to enjoy all this, not to take it for what it is! I may never again be surrounded by such beauty. Mary sighed.
She turned, as she heard the unfastening of the door, to see Adora enter, a languid, fatigued Adora, supported on the one side by Piqua St. Paris, on the other by Arabia Scribner. The group resembled, Mary thought afterwards, Cleopatra, guided by Charmian and Iras.
Perceiving the room to be already occupied, Adora regained a little of her spent vitality.
Why, Mary, she exclaimed, we've missed you. What are you doing off here, all by yourself?
I was tired, Mary explained, and I came up here because you can see the garden better from this window.
I'm tired too, Adora sighed, sinking into a fauteuil, tired to death of all those Niggers[1] downstairs. Sometimes I hate Niggers.
Adora dear, chirped Mrs. St. Paris, in a shrill,
- ↑ While this informal epithet is freely used by Negroes among themselves, not only as a term of opprobrium, but also actually as a term of endearment, its employment by a white person is always fiercely resented. The word Negress is forbidden under all circumstances.
