Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by one or more of the children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive to their advances.
“You’ve had your innings, Francis,” the father finally declared. “That will be the last from you.”
“There’s one thing more I want to know,” he pleaded. “Miss Lamont, do colored people ever have—what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamont had, mother?”
“Oh, Francis!” exclaimed his mother. “I said,” looking at Pen, “that I feared you were anemic, and then I had to describe the word minutely.”
“Are they ever that, Miss Lamont?” insisted the boy.
“I never thought of it before,” answered Pen after a moment’s reflection, “but I don’t see why they couldn’t be so, same as white people.”
“Then how could they tell they had it. They wouldn’t look white, would they?”
“Suppose,” interceded Kingdon, “we try to find a less colorful topic. I move we adjourn to the library for coffee.”
“We stay up an hour after dinner,” said Billy, when they were gathered about the welcome open fire, “but when we have company, it’s an hour and a half.”
“I should think that rule would be reversed,” replied Kingdon humorously.