“You are a stranger, my dear; it is only that. And they are all so fond of Cicely that it wouldn’t be Christmas to them if she did not pay them a visit; they worship her.”
“And after she has sung that song!”
“That song?”
“‘Niggerless,’” quoted Eve, indignantly.
“Well, we are niggerless, or nearly so,” said Miss Sabrina, mystified.
“It’s the word, the term.”
“Oh, you mean nigger? It is very natural to us to say so. I suppose you prefer negroes? If you like, I will try to call them so hereafter. Negroes; yes, negroes.” She pronounced it “nig-roes.” “I don’t know whether I have told you,” she went on, “how much Cicely dislikes dreams?”
“Well she may!” was the thought of Jack Bruce’s sister. What she said, with a short laugh, was, “You had better tell her to be careful about eating hot breads.”
“Would you have her eat cold bread?” said Miss Sabina, in surprise. “I didn’t mean that her nights were disturbed; I only meant that she dislikes the telling of dreams—a habit so common at breakfast, you know. I thought I would just mention it.”
Eve gave another abrupt laugh. “Do you fear I am going to tell her mine? She would not find them all of sugar.”