“Do you? That shows your utter density regarding Scipio and Charles. I daresay you thought it very amusing that I should work for my servants.”
“I did.”
“They work for me when I want them and make them—that is, they work in a certain way—their way. And I suppose you would have that United States flag pin off Scipio’s bosom and that cane with the red, white, and blue ribbons out of Charles’s hand if you were travelling to Newport with them.”
“I am afraid I should.”
“And you could not stand the wreaths of red roses on the hats of my two maids?”
“I am quite sure I couldn’t.”
“Then, Mr. Thorndyke, stop legislating for the negroes, because you know nothing about them.”
“I admit,” said Thorndyke, “that the patience and indulgence of Southerners toward negroes has always amazed and charmed me. But I believe the negro would be better off if he were made to assume greater responsibilities.”
“Go to. Can the Ethiopian change his skin?”
Just then, Mr. James Brentwood Baldwin and Eleanor sauntered into the state-room of the car. They were to join a yachting party at Old Point Comfort. They spoke distantly and coolly to both Constance and Thorndyke—the memory of Senator Mince Pie Mulligan’s candid praise of “ould Danny Hogan at th’ corner grocery” was still a green and smarting wound in their breasts.