IN THE THICKET.
Alone in my room I sat, with the window shades pulled down, waiting for the coming of another day. And for what end? To meet the gaze of vulgar eyes. The tavern bells had rung the supper hour, and doors were closing about the public square. I heard the "haw haw" and the shuffling dance of negroes on the pavement. I heard Washington's step on the stair and I lighted the gas and waited, for now he was not an unwelcome visitor. He tapped at the door like a small bird pecking on a tree. I bade him come in, and as he entered he dropped his hat on the floor.
"Don't do that," I commanded, "don't give me any more affectation. You despise your father's dialect but you preserve his tricks of slavish humility."
"Humility is more the virtue of the Christian than the trick of the slave, Mr. Belford," he replied. "But tell me why you are so free and simple when you talk to other people and so—pardon me if I use the word theatric—so theatric with me."
"Because you rob me of my naturalness and compel me to strut. But let me be natural now. Are you just from the house?"
"Yes, I came straight down here."
"Had the Senator returned?"
"Yes, but he soon went away again—after Mr. Estell came."
"Did you see them meet?"
"No, I had gone out to help the woman bring in the clothes because it looked like rain."