If this story were chronicling the doings of some fanciful Negro, or some really rude plantation hand, it might be said that the “front room was filled with a conglomeration of cheap but pretentious furniture, and the walls covered with gaudy prints”—this seems to be the usual phrase. But in it the chronicler too often forgets how many Negroes were house-servants, and from close contact with their master’s families imbibed aristocratic notions and quiet but elegant tastes.
This front room was very quiet in its appointments. Everything in it was subdued except—Mrs. Hatton. She was rocking back and forth in a light little rocker that screeched the indignation she could not express. She did not deign to look at Nelse as he came into the room; but an acceleration of speed on the part of the rocker showed that his presence was known.
Her husband’s enthusiasm suddenly died out as he looked at her; but he put on a brave face as he said,—
“’Lizy, I bet a cent you can’t guess who that pore man in there is.”
The rocker suddenly stopped its violent motion with an equally violent jerk, as the angry woman turned upon her husband.
“No, I can’t guess,” she cried; “an’ I don’t want to. It’s enough to be settin’ an on’ry ol’ tramp down to my clean table, without havin’ me spend my time guessin’ who he is.”
“But look a-here, ’Lizy, this is all different; an’ you don’t understand.”
“Don’t care how different it is, I do’ want to understand.”
“You’ll be mighty su’prised, I tell you.”
“I ’low I will; I’m su’prised already at you puttin’ yourself on a level with tramps.” This with fine scorn.