Nothing save the very unusual amount of whisky he had been taking could have induced White to say that and in such a tone. Milly looked at him in a dazed, stupid way, her cherry underlip falling as if from the weight of the information she had received.
"Do he go wuth them air fine folks?" she presently inquired, in a dry, doleful voice.
"Ye'd think so ef ye'd see 'im," he answered. "He air high dinky davy along of the best of 'em, I tell ye. Him an' that feller Moreting what wer' here that rainy day do scoot aroun' with them air silks an' ribbons an' jew'lry alarmin' to the saints."
Milly put her hands together and rested them on her head with their fingers intertwined. She appeared to be considering some troublesome proposition.
"Do ye s'pose them folks'll make fun of we-uns to 'im?"
White chuckled.
"I don't keer airy dam ef they do," he said, contemptuously snapping his thumb and finger. "Let 'em sail in."
"Well I wush 'at they wouldn't. 'Tain't none er the'r business 'bout how we-uns looks, no how," she quickly replied. She looked over her faded cotton dress as she spoke, with a hurried, dissatisfied glance. She had seen some wonderful dresses in Birmingham.
"No, hit tain't the'r business, thet's a fac', Milly," he responded, ramming his pipe with his finger and wagging his head. "'Tain't store clo's, an' jew'ls an' sich 'at meks folks honest an' 'spectable, hits in yer, Milly, in yer," tapping his breast. "We'r' jest as good as any body, hain't we, Milly?"
"Spec' so; dunno," she said, looking dully at him. "I wush he had er staid yer an' kep' away f'om down ther'."