“An’, to-day, honey, as I sat in de Cathedral, lis’nin’ to de Archbishop, I seemed to see Edna, an’ she all in dentelles so chic, comin’ up de aisle, followed by twelve maids, all ob good blood, holdin’ flowehs an’ wid hats kimpoged ob feddehs—worn raddeh to de side, an’ I heah a stranger say: ‘Excuse me, sah, but who dis fine marriage?’ an’ a voice make reply: ‘Why, dat Mr. Ruiz de milliona’r-’r-’r’,’ an’ as he speak, one ob dese Italians from de Opera-house, commence to sing, ‘De voice dat brieved o’er Eden,’ an’ Edna she blow a kiss at me an’ laugh dat arch.”
“Nebba!”
“Prancing Nigger, ‘wait an’ see’!” Mrs. Mouth waved prophetically her fan.
“No, nebba,” he repeated, his head sunk low in chagrin.
“How you know, sah?” she queried, rising to throw a crust of loaf to the organ man outside.
The wind with the night had risen, and a cloud of blown dust was circling before the gate.
“See de raindrops, deah; here come at last de big rain.”
“....”
“Prancing Nigger!”