“Mistress Pinckney she told me to tell you—she mos’ sholey did.”
“Go wash yo’ face, yo’ coloured trash, cummin’ here wid yo’ orders—skip out o’ my piazza—’clar’ to goodness I dunno what’s cummin’ to niggers dese days.”
Then Miss Pinckney’s voice as from an upper window:
“Dinah! Seth! what’s that I hear? Get on with your work the pair of you and stop your chattering. You hear me?”
When Phyl came down Richard Pinckney was in the garden smoking a cigarette and gathering some carnations.
“They’re for aunt,” said he, “to propitiate her for my being late last night. I wasn’t in till one. I’m worse even than you, you see, and the next time you are out till eleven and I let you in and grumble at you, you can hit back. Have a flower.”
He gave her the finest in his bunch and Phyl put it in her belt. If she had any doubt as to the sincerity of his welcome his manner this morning ought to have set her mind at rest.
She stood looking at him as he tied the stalks of the flowers together and he was worth looking at, a fresh, bright figure, the very incarnation of youth and health and one might almost say innocence. Clear eyed, well-groomed, good to look upon.
“I generally pick a flower and put it on her plate,” said he, “but this morning she shall have a whole bunch—hope you slept all right?”
“Rather,” said Phyl, “I never sleep much the first night in a new place—but somehow—oh, I don’t know how to express it—but nothing here seems new.”