"Look here, Cissie," he said in a queer voice, "you—you don't mean, after all, that Tump Pack is—"
"Oh no! No!" Her face showed her repulsion. Then she drew a long breath and apparently made up her mind to some sort of ordeal.
"Peter," she asked in a low tone, "did you ever think what we colored people are trying to reach?" She stared into his uncomprehending eyes. "I mean what is our aim, our goal, whom are we trying to be like?"
"We aren't trying to be like any one." Peter was entirely at a loss.
"Oh, yes, we are," Cissie hurried on. "Why do colored girls straighten their hair, bleach their skins, pinch their feet? Aren't they trying to look like white girls?"
Peter agreed, wondering at her excitement.
"And you went North to college, Peter, so you could think and act like a white man—"
Peter resisted this at once; he was copying nobody. The whole object of college was to develop one's personality, to bring out—
The girl stopped his objections almost piteously.
"Oh, don't argue! You know arguing throws me off. I—now I've forgotten how I meant to say it!" Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes.