f the church, the
creamy Miss Williams, the golden yellow of Mr. Teerswell, the golden
brown of Miss Johnson, and the velvet brown of Mr. Grey. The guest
themselves did not notice this; they were used to asking one's color as
one asks of height and weight; it was simply an extra dimension in their
world whereby to classify men.

Beyond this and their hair, there was little to distinguish them from a
modern group of men and women. The speech was a softened English, purely
and, on the whole, correctly spoken--so much so that it seemed at first
almost unfamiliar to Bles, and he experienced again the uncomfortable
feeling of being among strangers. Then, too, he missed the loud but
hearty good-nature of what he had always called "his people." To be
sure, a more experienced observer might have noted a lively, excitable
tropical temperament set and cast in a cold Northern mould, and yet
flashing fire now and then in a sudden anomalous out-bursting. But Bles
missed this; he seemed to have slipped and lost his bearings, and the
characteristics of his simple world were rolling curiously about. Here
stood a black man with a white man's voice, and yonder a white woman
with a Negro's musical cadences; and yet again, a brown girl with
exactly Miss Cresswell's air, and yonder, Miss Williams, with Zora's
wistful willfulness.

Bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his
heart with sickening hopeless weight. His hands got in the way and he
found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully furnished rooms.
Once he discovered himself standing by a marble statue of a nude woman,
and he edged away; then he stumbled over a rug and saved himself only to
step on Miss Jones's silken train. Miss Jones's smile of pardon was
wintry. When he did approach a group and listen, they seemed speaking of
things foreign to him--usually of people he did not know, their homes,
their doings, their daughters and their fathers. They seemed to know
people intimately who lived far away.

"You mean the Smiths of Boston?" asked Miss Jones.

"No, of Cleveland. They're not related."

"I heard that McGhee of St. Paul will be in the city next week with his
daughter."

"Yes, and the Bentleys of Chicago."

Bles passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to say, of
mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these people and
crying: "Ho! What of the morning? How goes the great battle for black
men's rights? I have