“Don’t be cross,” she had murmured, cooingly—“it’s so ugly!”
Whereat the Philosopher’s set mouth had relaxed into a rather grieved smile, and he had casually observed:
“You seem to have caught a cold. Your eyes are red!”
But to this she had made no answer,—and merely swallowing an uncomfortable lump in her throat had walked on quietly, light-footed and serene. And it was this swiftly attained composure of hers that had moved him to the implied compliment he had just uttered: “You are not a Nagger!”
She did not speak—so he went on.
“Of all detestable things in this world a Nagger is the worst! Once—years ago—I knew one.”
She turned her head towards him.
“Man or woman?” she asked.
“Woman, of course! Foolish child! Did you ever hear of a male nagger? The type is essentially feminine!”
She smiled, but was silent.