“Dat’s right,” concurred Ike, confident that he appeared to good advantage before the employees of the Home and that, through his stalwart support of Serena, he was laying up treasure for a rainy day.
“What’s all this talk about?” Mr. Vivian demanded suddenly as if being a stranger to the controversy he sought enlightenment. “Who said that I wouldn’t serve your sandwiches and tea?”
Serena, after the manner of her generation, was wise. She understood the whiteman and knew when to stop war and resort to diplomacy. She whirled upon the hapless Ike. “Ain’ yo’all got no bettah manners an’ to stan’ der er listin’ at dis gent’men an’ me a talkin’. You ’minds me o’ er ole turkey gobbler er standin der wid you’ haid twisted.”
Such an unlooked-for attack, from one with whom he had publicly allied himself, grieved Ike sorely. He retreated crestfallen and humiliated.
When Virginia entered the kitchen she found Serena and Mr. Vivian laboring diligently and as intimate friends, decrying the efficiency of their assistants without regard to color or previous condition of servitude.
Another army truck brought the band. White collars and ties showed festively above brass buttoned blue coats. Hair, mustaches, and whiskers had been dressed with extraordinary care, and aged musicians looked from beneath campaign hats worn at a most rakish angle. As they took possession of the stand, there ensued a period of melancholy tootings as instruments were adjusted and lips made supple.
Excitement seized the old ladies at their toilets, as these isolated blarings smote their ears. Certain partially deaf ones, confident that the concert had begun and desirous of missing no note of it, descended, minus switches, false fronts and, indeed, in one case, an over-skirt. These omissions became the subject of great embarrassment when discovered later.
As three o’clock approached, a prim calmness fell upon the inmates of the home when they assembled stiffly gowned in best apparel.
Hezekiah Wilkins, in holiday garb of silk hat and cutaway frock, arrived. Mrs. Henderson came a few moments later. Certain uninvited ancient men dressed as for a fiesta followed. Mr. Jones and Kelly entered the grounds with an air of having casually dropped in and not intending to stay long. The stenographer wore a natty suit, the check of which caught the discriminating eye of Ike as it rounded the gate. At the scheduled moment for the concert, Colonel Ryan approached and, after saluting Virginia, seated himself upon the porch and viewed the band with the pride and pleasure of its proprietor.
At the tap of the leader, the onlookers were dazzled by golden reflections as the musicians lifted their instruments. With a burst of harmony, Virginia’s concert was on. Even at the first note, the stiff dignity of the audience melted and they conversed. Women whose taciturnity had been remarked for years in that place of silence became loquacious.