The old woman drew herself up proudly and replied with freezing politeness:
“I beg yo' pardon, sah—but I was not awares that I had any nephew in the mill, or was related to anybody in here, sah. I hav'nt my visitin' cyard with me, but if I had 'em heah you'd find my entitlements, on readin', was somethin' lak this: Miss Maria Conway, of Zion!”
Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted his glasses again with agitated nervous attempts at a lilt. Then he struck his level and fell back on his natural instinct, unmixed, with attempts at being what he was not:
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Conway”—
“Git my entitlements right, please sah. I'm the only old maid lady of color you ever seed or ever will see again. Niggahs, these days, lak birds, all git 'em a mate some way—but I'm Miss Conway of Zion.”
“Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway—Miss Conway of Zion. And where, pray, is that city, Miss Conway? I may have to have an officer communicate with you.”
“With pleasure, sah—It's a pleasure for me to he'p people find a place dey'd never find without help—no—not whilst they're a-workin' the life out of innocent tots an' babes—”
Kingsley flushed hot, angered:
“What do you mean, old woman?”
“The ole woman means,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye, “that you are dealin' in chile slavery, law or no law; that you're down heah preachin' one thing for niggahs an' practisin' another for yo' own race; that yo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of niggah slavery, whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whites that's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now you wanter know what I come for? I come for my chile!”