From across the room came the sound of some one singing Suwanee River—a tenor voice, soft and sweet as a spring night in Georgia.
“Yes, must. I’ve hardly talked to you for five minutes straight. We happen to have been blown together here like atoms of dust. Tomorrow we may be at the opposite ends of the earth.”
“So you’d like to know more about this atom of dust, before I’m blown away. Well, Colonel Dustman, you may call for me Friday. I’ll have the afternoon off. That’s only two days from now. If you can wait.”
Their hostess, the Countess Montfort, whose eyes had been traveling from one face to another, like a mother hen summoning her chicks—was approaching, her plump, pretty face all solicitous smiles.
“Ah, I know you are both in such charming company,” she pouted, “but would you not like to listen to the singing from one of your countrymen? Monsieur Veeliams has such a splendid voice.”
“Friday then,” Hamilton agreed. As Hamilton and Meadows arose, the countess passed on to another group.
“That’s another one of my boys over there—singing—Williams,” said Meadows.
“Williams? I don’t know any Williams—except the nigger whose bed was next to mine.”
“Well, that’s the one.”
“How’d he get in here?”