“I’m going to have a few friends in next Tuesday night; won’t you come, Mr. Alwyn?” And Mr. Alwyn said that he would.
Next morning Miss Wynn rather repented her hasty invitation, but of course nothing could be done now. Nothing? Well, there was one thing; and she went to the telephone. A suggestion to Bles that he might profitably extend his acquaintance sent him to a certain tailor shop kept by a friend of hers; a word to the tailor guarded against the least suspicion of intrigue entering Bles’s head.
It turned out quite as Miss Wynn had designed; Mr. Grey, the tailor, gave Bles some points on dressing, and made him, Southern fashion, a frock-coat for dress wear that set off his fine figure. On the night of the gathering at Miss Wynn’s Bles dressed with care, hesitating long over a necktie, but at last choosing one which he had recently purchased and which pleased him particularly. He was prompt to the minute and was consequently the first guest; but Miss Wynn’s greeting was so quietly cordial that his embarrassment soon fled. She looked him over at leisure and sighed at his tie; otherwise he was thoroughly presentable according to the strictest Washington standard.
They sat down and talked of generalities. Then an idea occurring to her, she conducted the conversation by devious paths to ties and asked Alwyn if he had heard of the fad of collecting ties. He had not, and she showed him a sofa pillow.
“Your tie quite attracted me,” she said; “it would make just the dash of color I need in my new pillow.”
“You may have it and welcome. I’ll send—”
“Oh, no! A bird in the hand, you know. I’ll trade with you now for another I have.”
“Done!”
The exchange was soon made, Miss Wynn tying the new one herself and sticking a small carved pin in it. Bles slowly sat down again, and after a pause said, “Thank you.”
She looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and good-natured.
“You see,” he explained, “in the country we don’t know much about ties.”
The well-balanced Miss Wynn for a moment lost her aplomb, but only for a moment.
“We must all learn,” she replied with penetration, and so their friendship was established.
The company now began to gather, and soon the double parlor held an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. They formed a picturesque group: conventional but graceful in dress; animated in movement; full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-American in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones; chiefly noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color in skin, which imparted to the throng a piquant and unusual interest. Every color was here; from the dark brown of Alwyn, who was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of Miss Jones, who could “pass for white” when she would, and found her greatest difficulties when she was trying to “pass” for black. Midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of 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 came with messages from the host, to you who guard the mountain tops.”
Apparently they were not discussing or caring about “the Problem.” He grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his
