He laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he observed.
"Oh, no," he answered deftly; "not very." And as they moved toward the dining-room Mary changed the subject.
"Oh," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "There is a man—a colored man—waiting to see you in the back hall, but I guess he can wait until after lunch."
They ate leisurely.
"There's going to be racing out at the park this evening," said Harry. "Want to go?"
"I was going to hear an art lecture at the Club," Mary returned, and grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. Of course, the Club was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort, but today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of European reputation was going to lecture, and Mary preferred it to the company of the race track. And—just as certainly—her husband didn't.
"Don't forget the man, dear," she reminded him; but he was buried in his paper, frowning.
"Look at that," he said finally. She glanced at the head-lines—"Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama."
"Why, it's Bles!" she said, her face lighting as his darkened.
"An impudent Negro," he voiced his disgust. "If they must appoint darkies why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings."