"We're all talking of it all the time," she said.
He looked incredulous.
"Yes, we are," she insisted. "We veil it a little, and laugh as lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that's grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic."
"But I don't understand."
"Ah, there's the rub. You haven't learned our language yet. We don't just blurt into the Negro Problem; that's voted bad form. We leave that to our white friends. We saunter to it sideways, touch it delicately because"—her face became a little graver—"because, you see, it hurts."
Bles stood thoughtful and abashed.
"I—I think I understand," he gravely said at last.
"Come here," she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed group in the midst of a conversation.
"—Thinking of sending Jessie to Bryn Mawr," Bles heard Miss Jones saying.
"Could she pass?"