I blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow flannel nightgown.
“You love me, Mary Jane,—don’t deny it! This trembling shows it!” He drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice tenderly modulated,—“How’s her pooty tootens,—did she get her ’ittle tootens wet,—b’ess her?”
I understood his allusion to my feet. I glanced down and saw that in my hurry I had put on a pair of his old india-rubbers. My feet were not small or pretty, and the addition did not add to their beauty.
“Let me go, sir,” I remarked quietly. “This is entirely improper; it sets a bad example for your child.” And I firmly but gently extricated myself from his grasp. I approached the door. He seemed for a moment buried in deep thought.
“You say this was a negress?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Humph, Number One, I suppose.”
“Who is Number One, sir?”
“My first,” he remarked, with a significant and sarcastic smile. Then, relapsing into his old manner, he threw his boots at my head, and bade me begone. I withdrew calmly.