When Croyden and Macloud left the Carrington residence that evening, after their call and tea, Elaine and Davila remained for a little while in the drawing-room rehearsing the events of the day, as women will. Presently, Davila went over to draw the shades.
“What do you say to a walk before we dress for dinner?” she inquired.
“I should like it, immensely,” Elaine answered.
They went upstairs, changed quickly to street attire, and set out.
“We will go down to the centre of the town and back,” said Davila. “It’s about half a mile each way, and there isn’t any danger, so long as you keep in the town. I shouldn’t venture beyond it unescorted, however, even in daylight.”
“Why?” asked Elaine. “Isn’t Hampton orderly?”
“Hampton is orderly enough. It’s the curse that hangs over the South since the Civil War: the negro.”
“Oh! I understand,” said Elaine, shuddering.
“I don’t mean that all black men are bad, for they are not. Many are entirely trustworthy, but the trustworthy ones are much, very much, in the 282 minority. The vast majority are worthless—and a worthless nigger is the worst thing on earth.”
“I think I prefer only the lighted streets,” Elaine remarked.