"It's only your imagination!" Cleo urged eagerly. "He's worried over politics."
"I'm not in politics. No, it's something else—I must go."
Cleo put her hand appealingly on Helen's arm:
"Don't be foolish, child!"
The girl drew away suddenly with instinctive aversion. The act was slight and quick, but not too slight or quick for the woman's sharp eye. She threw Helen a look of resentment:
"Why do you draw away from me like that?"
The girl flushed with embarrassment and stammered:
"Why—you see, I've lived up North all my life, shut up in a convent most of the time and I'm not used—to—colored people——"
"Well, I'm not a negro, please remember that. I'm a nurse and housekeeper, if you please, and there happens to be a trace of negro blood in my veins, but a white soul throbs beneath this yellow skin. I'd strip it off inch by inch if I could change its color"—her voice broke with assumed emotion—it was a pose for the moment, but its apparent genuineness deceived the girl and roused her sympathy.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," she said contritely.