The African smiled blandly.
“I assumed my accent in order to reassure you, sir,” he said, coolly. “You might not have admitted me if you had thought me a white man, and I am sent by your patron.”
“By our patron!” Mamma echoed his words in skeptical surprise.
“Yes; I am his servant.”
Papa and Mamma gazed at each other blankly and drew nearer together.
“He has sent you this note,” pursued the nonchalant fellow, keeping his eyes fixed upon Mamma’s face while he drew from his pocket a folded paper. “And I am to take your answer.”
Papa took the proffered note reluctantly, glanced at the superscription, and suddenly changed his manner.
“That is not directed to me,” he cried, sharply. “You have made a mistake.”
“It is directed to Papa Francoise.”
Papa peered closer at the superscription. “Yes; I think that’s it. It’s not my name; it’s not for me.”