"You and your brother should have taken one of those double chairs."
"Oh, there wouldn't have been any room for Gorham," and the jolly man laughed. "I suppose you have done the Plaisance."
"Partly, yes."
"Gorham and I went into the Dahomey village, this afternoon. Some of those savages were unpleasantly personal. Good afternoon, Aunt Love," as the housekeeper appeared on the veranda. "I was just telling Miss Mildred how those children of nature in the Dahomey village injured my finer feelings to-day. One of them came for me with a big carving knife, yelling 'Big man, fat man,' and going through the pantomime of taking a slice off my sacred person."
"Dirty critters!" remarked Miss Berry sententiously.
"Isn't it a funny paradox to see an incandescent light over the door of each hut?" went on Page. "There was one big fellow squatted down in the sun, off by himself, playing on a rough sort of a harp, and singing monotonously something that sounded like 'Come away, come away, Chicago.' I tried to write down the pitches he sang, and that amused him immensely. His ivories would have made a perfect dentist's sign. I gave him a dime or so to repeat the performance, a sufficient number of times, and he was delighted, and kept saying 'Chicago beer.'"
"Yes," returned Miss Berry bitterly. "They have to come to a Christian land for that."
"Wait till you see the South Sea Islanders," said Mildred.
"We did. Fine, aren't they? There is an exhibition of drill and muscle worth seeing."
"And that café-au-lait skin!" exclaimed Mildred. "I am entirely spoiled for white beauties."