She knew now. A name sprang to her lips, and she murmured it aloud, softly: “Quinton Taylor.”
Later she appeared to Martha—a vision that made the negro woman gasp with amazement.
“What happen to you, honey? You-all git good news? You look light an’ airy—like you’s goin’ to fly!”
“I’ve decided to like this place—after all, Martha. I—I thought at first that I wouldn’t, but I have changed my mind.”
Martha looked sharply at her, a sidelong glance that had quite a little subtle knowledge in it.
“I reckon that ‘Squint’ Taylor make a good many girls change their mind, honey—he, he, he!”
“Martha!”
“Doan you git ’sturbed, now, honey. Martha shuah knows the signs. I done discover the signs a long while ago—when I fall in love with a worfless nigger in St. Louis. He shuah did captivate me, honey. I done try to wiggle out of it—but ’tain’t no use. Face the fac’s, Martha, face the fac’s, I tell myself—an’ I done it. Ain’t no use for to try an’ fool the fac’s, honey—not one bit of use! The ol’ fac’ he look at you an’ say: ‘Doan you try to wiggle ’way from me; I’s heah, an’ heah I’s goin’ to stay!’ That Squint man ain’t no lady-killer, honey, but he’s shuah a he-man from the groun’ up!”
Marion escaped Martha as quickly as she could; and after breakfast began systematically to rearrange the furniture to suit her artistic ideals.
Martha helped, but not again did Martha refer to Quinton Taylor—something in Marion’s manner warned her that she could trespass too far in that direction.