“We were having something of an academic discussion with Miss Powell here,” said Banky, turning to Angela. “This,” he informed his co-workers, “is Miss Mory, one of the prizewinners of the Art Exhibit and a classmate of Miss Powell. I believe Miss Powell was to cross with you—as—er—your roommate did you say?”
“No,” said Angela, flushing a little for Miss Powell, for she thought she understood the double meaning of the question, “we weren’t intending to be roommates. Though so far as I am concerned,” she heard herself, to her great surprise, saying: “I’d have been very glad to share Miss Powell’s stateroom if she had been willing.” She wanted to get away from this aspect. “What’s this about an academic discussion?”
Miss Powell’s husky, rather mutinous voice interrupted: “There isn’t any discussion, Miss Mory, academic or otherwise. It seems Mr. Paget told these gentlemen and Miss Tilden here, that I had withdrawn definitely from the fight to induce the Committee for the American Art School abroad to allow me to take advantage of their arrangements. So they came up here to get me to make a statement and I said I had none to make other than that I was sick and tired of the whole business and I’d be glad to let it drop.”
“And I,” said Miss Tilden, a rangy young lady wearing an unbecoming grey dress and a peculiarly straight and hideous bob, “asked her if she weren’t really giving up the matter because in her heart she knew she hadn’t a leg to stand on.”
Angela felt herself growing hot. Something within her urged caution, but she answered defiantly: “What do you mean she hasn’t a leg to stand on?”
“Well, of course, this is awfully plain speaking and I hope Miss Powell won’t be offended,” resumed Miss Tilden, showing only too plainly that she didn’t care whether Miss Powell were offended or not, “but after all we do know that a great many people find the—er—Negroes objectionable and so of course no self-respecting one of them would go where she wasn’t wanted.”
Miss Powell’s mother hovering indefinitely in the background, addressing no one in particular, opined that she did not know that “that there committee owned the boat. If her daughter could only afford it she’d show them how quickly she’d go where she wanted and not ask no one no favours either.”
“Ah, but,” said Miss Tilden judicially, “there’s the fallacy. Something else is involved here. There’s a social side to this matter, inherent if not expressed. And that is the question.” She shook a thin bloodless finger at Miss Powell. “Back of most of the efforts which you people make to get into schools and clubs and restaurants and so on, isn’t there really this desire for social equality? Come now, Miss Powell, be frank and tell me.”
With such sharpness as to draw the attention of everyone in the room Angela said: “Come, Miss Tilden, that’s unpardonable and you know it. Miss Powell hadn’t a thought in mind about social equality. All she wanted was to get to France and to get there as cheaply as possible.”
Banky, talking in a rather affected drawl, confirmed the last speaker. “I think, too, that’s a bit too much, Miss Tilden. We’ve no right to interpret Miss Powell’s ideas for her.”
A short, red-faced young man intervened: “But just the same isn’t that the question involved? Doesn’t the whole matter resolve itself into this: Has Miss Powell or any other young coloured woman knowing conditions in America the right to thrust her company on a group of people with whom she could have nothing in common except her art? If she stops to think she must realize that not one of the prospective group of students who would be accompanying her on that ship would really welcome her presence. Here’s Miss Mory, for instance, a fellow student. What more natural under other circumstances than that she should have made arrangements to travel with Miss Powell? She knows she has to share her cabin with someone. But no; such a thought apparently never entered her head. Why? The answer is obvious. Very well then. If she, knowing Miss Powell, feels this way, how much more would it be the feeling of total strangers?”
A sort of shocked silence fell upon the room. It was an impossible situation. How, thought Angela desperately, knowing the two sides, could she ever explain to these smug, complacent people Miss Powell’s ambition, her chilly pride, the remoteness with which she had treated her fellow-students, her only too obvious endeavour to share their training and not their friendship? Hastily, almost crudely, she tried to get something of this over, ashamed for herself, ashamed for Miss Powell whose anguished gaze begged for her silence.
At last the coloured girl spoke. “It’s wonderful of you to take my part in this way, Miss Mory. I had no idea you understood so perfectly. But don’t you see there’s no use in trying to explain it? It’s a thing which one either does see or doesn’t see.” She left her soft, full, dark gaze rest for a second on her auditors. “I’m afraid it is not in the power of these persons to grasp what you mean.”
The stocky young man grew a little redder. “I think we do understand, Miss Powell. All that Miss Mory says simply confirms my first idea. For otherwise, understanding and sympathizing with you as she does, why has she, for instance, never made any very noticeable attempt to become your friend? Why shouldn’t she have asked you to be her side-partner on this trip which I understand you’re taking together? There would have been an unanswerable refutation for the committee’s arguments. But no, she does nothing even though it means the thwarting for you of a lifetime’s ambition. Mind, I’m not blaming you, Miss Mory. You are acting in accordance with a natural law. I’m just trying
