More E. K. Means / Is This a Title? It Is Not. It Is the Name of a Writer of Negro Stories, Who Has Made Himself So Completely the Writer of Negro Stories That This Second Book, Like the First, Needs No Title

by E. K. Means

“Certainly, Tom,” she replied. “That’s why I invited the ladies here—to see Diada.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“No. How could I? I’ve dressed her nicely, and she’s—well—tolerably presentable.”

“Have you ever heard her say a word?”

“No.”

“Does she appear to understand what you say?”

“No—I don’t know,” Mrs. Gaitskill answered.

Gaitskill rubbed his hand across his forehead, then swept it down his long, white beard.

“All right, Mildred,” he grinned. “It’s your obsequies. But I hope that dear heathen won’t perform any circus stunts.”

The conversation was brought to a close by the arrival of the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, an aged, feeble, badly crippled man, who leaned heavily upon his walking stick as he entered the door.