“The same way you did—walked. No, he didn’t either, he came here in the countess’ own car. He’s still too bandaged up to do much walking. But he got his invitation the same way you did.”
“I thought mine had come through McCall.”
“Indirectly, perhaps. I happen to know the countess. She wanted to meet some interesting Americans. So I gave her your names.”
Williams’ face was hidden from Hamilton, but Hamilton could see that in the circle of his auditors were members of the flower of Parisian society—distinguished diplomats, scholars, writers, women of striking beauty and brilliant attainments. And epigram and pointed repartee were falling from the African lips as adroitly as from the product of the ripest European and Oriental civilizations. The nigger was at home with them.
Hamilton’s face became contorted with rage, his fists clenched.
“You don’t know what you are doing.” He tried to keep his voice from rising. “These people don’t know. They mean well. But if you’d lived in the South as a child and seen what I’ve seen—”
He became suddenly speechless.
“I—I think I’ll not wait,” he finally said. “I’m going back to the hotel.”
His dark eyes blazing, Hamilton turned and strode out of the room. Meadows watched him in amazement. She had admired Hamilton’s air of calm strength, his sincerity, his deference to womankind. But she had never suspected him capable of such an outburst of passion.
There was a lull in the other conversations which suddenly carried Williams’ voice through the room. He had been describing the attitude of colored soldiers on the eve of battle. He told how the members of an infantry regiment to which he had been attached sat on the fire-step, a few hours before going over the top, harmonizing old plantation tunes.