"I used to light my cigarette with that much down on my rice swamps—"
"You see, Morton, she's such a little thing. A little thing with big eyes. All her life those eyes have looked right down into me, believing everything I ever told her. About you too, Morton. Good things. Not that I'm ashamed of anything I ever told her. My only wrong was ignorance. And innocence. Innocence of the kind of lesson I was to learn from you."
"Nothin' was ever righted by harping on it, Hattie."
"But I want you to understand—O God, make him understand—she's such a sensitive little thing. And as things stand now—glad I'm her mother. Yes, glad—black-face and all! Why, many's the time I've gone home from the theater, too tired to take off my make-up until I got into my own rocker with my ankles soaking in warm water. They swell so terribly sometimes. Rheumatism, I guess. Well, many a time when I kissed her in her sleep she's opened her eyes on me—black-face and all. Her arms up and around me. I was there underneath the black! She knows that! And that's what she'll always know about me, no matter what you tell her. I'm there—her mother—underneath the black! You hear, Morton! That's why you must let us—live—"
"My proposition is the mighty decent one of a gentleman."
"She's only a little baby, Morton. And just at that age where being like all the other boys and girls is the whole of her little life. It's killing—all her airiness and fads and fancies. Such a proper little young lady. You know, the way they clip and trim them at finishing school. Sweet-sixteen nonsense that she'll outgrow. To-night, Morton, she's at a party. A boy's. Her first. That fine-looking yellow-haired young fellow and his sister that bring her home every afternoon. At their house. Gramercy Park. A fine young fellow—Phi Pi—"
"Looka here, Hattie, are you talking against time?"
"She's home asleep by now. I told her she had to be in bed by eleven. She minds me, Morton. I wouldn't—couldn't—wake her. Morton, Morton, she's yours as much as mine. That's God's law, no matter how much man's law may have let you shirk your responsibility. Don't hurt your own flesh and blood by coming back to us—now. I remember once when you cut your hand it made you ill. Blood! Blood is warm. Red. Sacred stuff. She's your blood, Morton. You let us alone when we needed you. Leave us alone, now that we don't!"
"But you do, Hattie girl. That's just it. You're running things a woman's way. Why, a man with the right promoting ideas—"
There was a fusillade of bangs on the door now, and a shout as if the hair on the voice were rising in anger.