“Vashti”—a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly. Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, he thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim and strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but her blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small waist. He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, one of the numerous “diving beauties” of the vaudeville stage.
She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, garnishing his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about their picnic breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from the recent days of his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and with her open admiration essayed still greater flights of polished manner.
He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking in pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it vexed him.
“Vashty! Vashty!” a woman’s voice sounded thin and far away. “Vashty-y! Yo’ heah me, chile?”
Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.
“That’s my ma,” she said regretfully.
“What do yo’ care?” asked Gideon. “Let her yell awhile.”
The girl shook her head.
“Ma’s a moughty pow’ful ’oman, and she done got a club ’bout the size o’ my wrist.” She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at him.
Gideon leaped to his feet.