The voice died away in the distance but the poignant, nostalgic longing of the unseen singer remained. Jean and Mimi, used to the Creole dilution of the Negro songs, sat straining their ears to catch every note of this barbaric, melancholy wail as it died in the distance, a strange thrill filling them. The swiftly moving tragedy of the song, dying off abruptly as though the singer was too full for further words, stirred them both to the exclusion of all else. Again a voice was heard, this time a woman’s:
“These men I love, honey, Sho’ do make me tiahed, These men I love, honey, Sho’ do make me tiahed. They got a han’fulla gimme An’ a mouth fulla much oblige.”
A loud laugh greeted the end of her song.
“Hey dere, Babe, what’cha doin’?” called the first voice, and in response to the reply: “Nothin’ much. Come on in!” the two voices mingled in indistinct words, punctuated frequently with laughter, gay, rich and in unison.
“Gene, are you listening to what I’m telling you?” snapped Mr. Robertson, and Jean came back to realities with a start.
“Certainly! Certainly!” Jean hastened to assure him.
Mr. Robertson eyed him suspiciously and then, as the look of apparent interest on Jean’s face seemed to satisfy him, he continued his instructions. No sooner had he begun again, however, before Jean’s mind began to wander once more. He hoped fervently the singers would again begin but the warm night wrapped them in its vast silence.
Mimi welcomed her stepmother, who came briskly down the stairs followed at a respectful distance by her two companions.