In the early years after she had left Harlem she had on numerous occasions met former acquaintances of hers on the street. Sometimes she had bowed and spoken a few words, sometimes she had passed rapidly by and hated herself for doing so for days afterwards. Six years and more had apparently wiped all trace of her former days from the slates of Harlem, the ever-changing population either too busy or too uninterested to continue their concern with her and her affairs. Though she denied it to herself, sometimes with a trace of bitterness that her own people had forced her to live a life of duplicity and deceit, nevertheless she felt frequently a yearning for contact with her own people, for whom she had the same passionate love of the days following the riot in Atlanta despite all she had suffered at their hands.
She was lonely, for despite her success she had no intimates, none she could call friend, though she might have had them had she chosen. She missed the warm colourfulness of life among her own, she had never been able to shake off the chill she felt even when her present-day associates sought to be most cordial. And she resented bitterly the airs of superiority they assumed. Frequently when she heard contemptuous remarks about “niggers,” “coons,” “darkies,” from those who showed by their words their complete ignorance of Negroes, she felt like reminding them that to her there were two ways of achieving and maintaining superiority: one, by being superior; the other, by keeping somebody else inferior. And she felt no better that her life made her keep silent when these attacks were made. Once or twice she had sought to disprove the contention of some obviously biased person. Her face had flamed and she had relapsed into a silence that galled her when she had been met by the curt statement that in itself was a challenge: “Oh, you’re a ‘nigger-lover’—and from the South too!” …
Steadily she kept to the course she had set despite these and other distractions. Madame Francine’s visits to the new shop in Fifty-seventh Street became more and more infrequent, now that she spent most of her time in her home at Mount Vernon and her winters in Florida. Mimi was now actually the mistress of the place and she occupied the room which would have been Madame Francine’s, though there was always a desk ready for her when she chose to come in and consult with Mimi on matters of importance. …
Mrs. Horace Crosby, late of Chicago, where her Rotary Club husband had manipulated certain markets in grain, very much to the advantage of the Crosby exchequer, waddled puffingly, her succession of chins joggling with jellylike quiverings above her ample breast, across the narrow pavement of the Rue de la Paix to her waiting motorcar. Her rotund, much bepowdered and berouged face broke into a cherubic smile that spread like ripples on a placid pond when a stone is dropped into it, as she saw a trim, reddish-haired young woman approaching. She turned and effectively blocked the passage of the young woman, making non-recognition even less possible by extending her fat arms adorned with numerous bracelets and her fingers much bedecked with diamonds.
“Well, now, if this ain’t lovely—to run across you like this in Paris, Miss Daquin! You must get right in and come to the hotel for luncheon with me. I just must show you some of the lovely things I’ve bought—real antiques and pictures and lots of pretty things—but Horace says I’m a fool to spend so much money on these ‘Frog’ things—tells me they sting me every time I go in a place—”
Mimi tried to plead a multiplicity of engagements, but to no avail. Mrs. Crosby as a poor woman had had a knack of making people do what she wanted them to do. Now that her aggressiveness was backed by wealth far greater than she had ever dreamed as a girl the world possessed, she could be evaded now only by one’s abrupt taking to one’s heels. Mimi made a wry face as she entered the lavender car adorned by the huge Crosby monogram in gilt. Resistance was useless, she realized, and Mrs. Crosby did buy a lot of things from Francine. Though her gowns always looked as though they had been purchased on Fourteenth Street in New York, somewhere east of the Avenue.
“My dear, I bought the cutest, sweetest little statue yesterday—the darlingest little Cupids with bows and arrows you ever saw. Horace tells me the only place I can put it is in the garage—we’ve got so much stuff now, the house is running over. But I don’t care—it’s a dear—and it must be good, for it cost me twelve thousand francs! And I bought it from the artist himself—oh, Miss Daquin, you should have seen him. Big dark eyes and long hair and the sweetest velvet jacket—he looked just like a Sicilian bandit, though I’ve never seen one, but I just know they look like that. He made me feel all creepy inside—say, I’ll take you down to meet him—he’s such a dear I know you’ll fall in love with him right off—”
“Thanks—you’re very kind but I just can’t possibly make it this afternoon,” Mimi hastily interrupted her. “Ought really to be at work now but just couldn’t resist the temptation of having luncheon with you,” she added as she saw the childish pout of disappointment which fitted instantly over Mrs. Crosby’s face when she met opposition to any wish of hers.
“Well, some other day then—but you must see him!” Mrs. Crosby smiled, mollified by Mimi’s insincere compliment.
Mimi sank into the soft cushions and watched the shops and passersby along the boulevard, her mind only half given to Mrs. Crosby’s chatter. It wasn’t so difficult to get along with this
