“I dud.”
“You meant—?”
“I meaned thet it ’ud be no use o’ my inviting Maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. Unless yur father do that, the young fellur ’ll go ’ithout tastin’. You unnerstan, Miss Lewaze, he ain’t one o’ thet sort o’ poor whites as kin be sent roun’ to the kitchen.”
The young Creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. She appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts.
“Never mind about it,” she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. “Never mind, Mr Stump. You need not invite him. Only let me know when he arrives—unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. But if he should come at that time, you detain him—won’t you?”
“Boun’ to do it, ef you bid me.”
“You will, then; and let me know he is here. I shall ask him to eat.”
“Ef ye do, miss, I reck’n ye’ll speil his appetite. The sight o’ you, to say nothin’ o’ listenin’ to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin’ wolf o’ bein’ hungry. When I kim in hyur I war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. Neow I don’t care a durn about eatin’. I ked go ’ithout chawin’ meat for month.”
As this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the “cocina,” carrying a light tray—followed by Pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted.
“You great giant!” was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; “I won’t believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten Jack. Yonder come Pluto and Morinda. They bring something that will prove more cheerful company than I; so I shall leave you to enjoy it. Good bye, Zeb—good bye, or, as the natives say here, hasta luego!”