Serena pressed for an answer. “Ain’ yo’all do dat?”
“Possibly my men may assist you,” the caterer conceded, as he glanced at his assistants grouped at his back.
Serena was supported by Ike and several colored females, employees of the Home, into whose good graces the chauffeur was endeavoring to ingratiate himself.
Serena’s hands were upon her hips and her entire body vibrated. Her eyes glistened with rage and rested menacingly upon the caterer. She was clothed in an air of mystery. Her opponent could not determine whether she proposed to rely upon logical argument, abusive language, or physical violence.
Mr. Vivian noted uneasily the mass of vibrant temper he had aroused. He stood his ground, however, and did not retreat.
“Whoall is er givin’ dis yere sociable? Whoall pays fo’ dis yere ’tainment? Ah asts you dat? Answer me, whiteman?”
Ike drew nigh, inclining an ear that he might miss no word of the altercation. “Dats right,” he interjected in a rich mellow voice.
Mr. Vivian gave no heed to the aid and comfort vouchsafed his adversary.
“Ah tells you who pays. Ah’m right yere to tell yo’all who pays,” proclaimed Serena. “Miss Virginy done pay. Dat who.” Hers was a song of triumph now. “Ahs her nu’se. Ah’s her housekeeper.” She shook a great fist at the caterer. “Whiteman, wot ah sez, ah means. Ef yo’all ain’ gwine surve ma sandwiches an’ ma tea, jes tek yo’se’f an’ des yere white waiters away f’om yere.”