“You betta no tell nob’dy else. You fadder know dat, he awfu angry. I’m satin shoo he go berry mad ’bout it.”
“But why? Is there any harm in it?”
“Ah, why! Maybe you find out in time. You betta gib you affecshun to your cousin Cudamore.”
“Impossible to do that. I don’t like him. I can’t.”
“An’ you like de oder?”
“Certainly I do. I can’t help it. How could I?” The Creole did not much wonder at this. She belonged to a race of women wonderfully appreciative of the true qualities of men; and despite a little aversion at first, felt she had learned to like the ’publican captain. It was he of whom they were speaking.
“But, Missa, tell me de truth. You tink he like you?”
“I do not know. I’d give a great deal to think so.”
“How much you gib?”
“All the world—if I had it. Oh, dear Sabby I do you believe he does?”