“Tell me about yourself,” he demanded, pleasantly, too pleasantly Mimi thought.
“There’s little to tell. I work for my living.”
“Your husband’s dead, then?” he remarked, looking at her black dress. Mimi yet wore mourning, partly because she could afford no new clothes. She began to gather her work to avoid his questions.
“You don’t mean to tell me you’re coloured?” he pursued, incredulously. “My wife told me about having a coloured girl sewing for her but I never expected to see anybody looking like you !”
“I am coloured.” Mimi assured him firmly as she tried to leave the room.
“Wait a minute—wait a minute,” he hastened to add. “I don’t mean any harm. I was born in the South and I always liked Negroes.”
“That’s very kind of you—but I’ve got to hurry home,” Mimi nervously answered as she sought to leave the room. He stood in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back, and the smile on his face made her think instinctively of