Her mood was alarming, almost hysterical. Peter began comforting her.
"There, there, dear, dear Cissie, what is the matter? Don't say it at all." Then, inconsistently, he added: "You said I copied white men. Well, what of it?"
Cissie breathed her relief at having been given the thread of her discourse. She sat silent for a moment with the air of one screwing up her courage.
"It's this," she said in an uncertain voice: "sometimes we—we—girls— here in Niggertown copy the wrong thing first."
Peter looked blankly at her.
"The wrong thing first, Cissie?"
"Oh, yes; we—we begin on clothes and—and hair and—and that isn't the real matter."
"Why, no-o-o, that isn't the real matter," said Peter puzzled.
Cissie looked at his face and became hopeless.
"Oh, don't you understand! Lots of us—lots of us make that mistake! I—I did; so—so, Peter, I can't go with you!" She flung out the last phrase, and suddenly collapsed on the arm of her chair, sobbing.