"To-night."
"Betta make has'e, then; it's mos' day."
"Well, to-morrow'll do."
"W'at you goin' do, yonda?"
"I don't know. Drown myself in the lake, maybe; unless you go down there to visit your uncle."
Calixta's senses were reeling; and they well-nigh left her when she felt Alcée's lips brush her ear like the touch of a rose.
"Mista Alcée! Is dat Mista Alcée?" the thick voice of a negro was asking; he stood on the ground, holding to the banister-rails near which the couple sat.
"W'at do you want now?" cried Alcée impatiently. "Can't I have a moment of peace?"
"I ben huntin' you high an' low, suh," answered the man. "Dey—dey some one in de road, onda de mulbare-tree, want see you a minute."
"I would n't go out to the road to see the Angel Gabriel. And if you come back here with any more talk, I 'll have to break your neck." The negro turned mumbling away.