“What of it? What of it?” Mrs. Daquin’s second interrogation was almost a thin scream. “Jean, do you hear what your daughter is saying? She brazenly admits she and that Hunter boy went to a disreputable, vile place and then she asks: ‘What of it?’ ”
Mrs. Daquin’s anger was fast mastering her, despite her previously determined plan to retain mastery of the situation through calmness and scorn. Mimi’s willing admission of her guilt, as Mrs. Daquin considered it, had taken some of the wind out of her sails. Or, better, instead of a strong head wind Mrs. Daquin’s craft had been suddenly assailed by a veering wind from port. Like an inexperienced sailor she sought to bring her helm around and steer her boat into waters where there was less danger of squalls.
Jean looked up from his plate and stared hard but in not unfriendly fashion at Mimi. He answered his wife’s question without looking at her.
“Yes, Mary, I heard her. What about it, Mimi?”
“Carl did take me to the dance, papa. I wanted to see some of these new dances, hear the music, see a side of life among coloured people I had never seen before. We went there, we stayed awhile, and then Carl brought me home. Do you see anything wrong in that, papa Jean?” Mimi ended calmly.
Before Jean could reply his wife burst in upon the conversation, able no longer to restrain her anger.
“Wrong in it? Mimi, haven’t you any sense of decency at all? Even if you didn’t do anything but what you said, think of what the neighbours will say! Think of what—”
“I told my father, Mrs. Daquin, what took place, and I’m not in the habit of lying to him,” Mimi with cold fury, her eyes flaming with