Presently lunch was over, and they resumed their old positions, prepared to “take comfort.”
“You haven’t answered my question yet, Sappho.”
“To tell you the truth, I had forgotten your remark, Dora; what was it?”
“I suspect that is a bit of a fib to keep me from teasing you about getting married. What I want to know is: Do you ever mean to marry, or are you going to pine in single blessedness on my hands and be a bachelor-maid to the end?”
“Well,” replied Sappho, with a comical twist to her face, “in the words of Unc’ Gulliver, ‘I mote, an’ then agin I moten’t.’ ”
“What troubles me is having a man bothering around. Now I tell John P. that I’m busy, or something like that, and I’m rid of him; but after you marry a man, he’s on your hands for good and all. I’m wondering if my love could stand the test.”
“That’s queer talk for an engaged girl, with a fine, handsome fellow to court her. Why, Dora, ‘I’m s’prised at yer!’ ” laughed Sappho gaily.
“I’m not ashamed of John P.’s appearance in company; he looks all right; but when one is terribly in love one is supposed to want the dear object always near; but matches—love matches—my child, turn out so badly that a girl hesitates to ‘git jined to eny man fer betterer or worserer,’ as Dr. Peters says. Then I get tired of a man so soon!” (This with a doleful sigh.) “I dread to think of being tied to John for good and all; I know I’ll be sick of him inside of a week. I do despair of ever being like other girls.”
Sappho laughed outright at the woebegone countenance before her.
“It is generally the other way: the men get tired of us first. A woman loves one man, and is true to him through all eternity.”
“That’s just what makes me feel so unsexed, so to speak; I like John’s looks. He’s the style among all the girls in our set. I like to know that I can claim him before them all. It’s fun to see ’em fluttering around him, kindly trying to put my nose out of joint. I must say that I feel real comfortable to spoil sport by walking off with him just when they think they’ve got things running as they wish. Yes, it’s real comfortable to know that they’re all as jealous as can be. But for all that, I know I’ll get tired of him.”
“Let us hope not, if you have really made up your mind to marry him. Dora, sometimes I am afraid that you mean what you say. I notice that you call him ‘John P.’ What’s the P for?”
“Pollock—John Pollock Langley. His grandfather was his father’s master, and Pollock was his name,” sang Dora, as she rocked gently to and fro. “Now, there’s Arthur Lewis,” she continued; “he’s jolly fun. He isn’t a fascinator, or anything of that sort; he’s just good.”
“Who is he?” asked Sappho, with languid interest.
“Properly speaking, he’s Dr. Arthur Lewis. We were children together, although he is five years older than I. He’s a fine scholar and a great businessman. He has a large industrial school in Louisiana. He’s gone up in the world, I tell you, since we made mud pies on the back doorsteps; but I never think of him except as old Arthur, who used to drag me to school on his sled.”
There was a gleam of fun in Sappho’s eyes, as she said demurely: “You seem to know all about him. Was he ever a lover of yours?”
“Lover! no, indeed!” Dora flushed vividly under her brown skin. “The idea of Arthur as my lover is too absurd.”
“Excuse me, dear, for my mistake,” said Sappho mischievously. “I didn’t know but that he might be the mysterious link which would join love, marriage and the necessary man in a harmonious whole.”
“Well,” said Dora, after a slight pause, blushing furiously, “I don’t say he wouldn’t like the role. You’ll see him soon; he’s coming to Boston on business in a few weeks. Oh, we’ve had rare times together.” She sighed and smiled, lost for the moment in pleasant memories. Sappho smiled, too, in sympathy with her mood.
“Ah, yes; I think I understand. Poor John!”
“John’s all right. Don’t shed any tears over him,” said Dora testily. They sat awhile in silence, listening to the sound of the whirling frozen flakes wind-driven against the window panes. It was scarce three o’clock, but darkness was beginning to envelop the city, and it was already a pleasant twilight in the room.
“Tell me about Dr. Lewis and his work, Dora,” said Sappho presently. “Do you know, he interests me exceedingly.”
“I don’t really understand Arthur’s hobbies, but I believe that he is supposed to be doing a great work in the Black Belt. His argument is, as I understand it, that industrial education and the exclusion of politics will cure all our race troubles.”
“I doubt it,” returned Sappho quickly, with an impatient toss of the head. “That reasoning might be practically illustrated with benefit to us for a few years in the South, but to my mind would not effect a permanent cure for race troubles if we are willing to admit that human nature is the same in us as in others. The time will come when our men will grow away from the trammels of narrow prejudice, and desire the same treatment that is accorded to other men. Why, one can but see that any degree of education and development will not fail of such a result.”
“I am willing to confess that the subject is a little
