“True?” she breathed, looking up languidly towards the white mounting moon.
“I dat amorous ob you, Mimi.”
IV
It was the Feast night. In the grey spleen of evening through the dusty lanes towards Mediavilla, county-society flocked.
Peering round a cow-shed door, Primrose and Phœbe, procured as waitresses for the occasion, felt their valour ooze as they surveyed the arriving guests, and dropping prostrate amid the straw, declared, in each others arms, that never, never would they find the courage to appear.
In the road, before a tall tamarind-tree, a well-spread supper board exhaled a pungent odour of fried cascadura fish, exciting the plaintive ravings of the wan pariah dogs, and the cries of a few little stark naked children engaged as guardians to keep them away. Defying an ancient and inelegant custom, by which the hosts welcomed their guests by the side of the road, Mrs. Mouth had elected to remain within the precincts of the house, where, according to tradition, the bridal trophies—cowrie-shells, feathers, and a bouquet of faded orange blossom—were being displayed.
“It seem no more dan yestidday,” she was holding forth gaily over a goblet of Sangaree wine, “it seem no more dan yestidday dat I put on me maiden wreath ob arange blastams to walk wid me nigger to church.”
Clad in rich-hued creepers, she was both looking and feeling her best.