sure that Mimi wasn’t trying either to poke fun at her or test her learning.
“My real name’s Annette Angela Daquin—but no one ever calls me that. They only call me Mimi,” innocently replied Mimi.
Yet not sure of herself, Mrs. Hunter felt it necessary that she justify herself before this queer infant.
“We don’t get much chance here to see good plays or hear such music as comes this way. The only play I’ve seen was Ben Hur and Mr. Hunter has never forgiven me for climbing up the back stairs to the peanut gallery at the Grand Opera House where the coloured people sit. That was grand, though, and almost worth the quarrel I had with Mr. Hunter about going.”
And Mrs. Hunter beamed at her husband in a benign fashion. Her duty done in commenting on Mimi’s cuteness and beauty, Mrs. Hunter turned her attention to Mrs. Daquin and subjects near to housewifely hearts. They wondered if there would be a late spring—“it’s been years since it’s been so cool in April as it is now,” affirmed Mrs. Hunter—they talked of the rising price of cloth and food and shoes—the art of cookery—“you must teach me some of those spicy dishes they tell me you have in New Orleans”—of local social life in Atlanta and how it compared with that in Louisiana.
Mimi listened alternately to the two and to the more restrained conversation of Jean and Mr. Hunter. The latter speculated, somewhat idly, as to the probable chances of Japan’s defeating Russia, Mr. Hunter told Jean of business prospects in the fall if cotton sold well. Her attention was caught, momentarily, by Mr. Hunter, who was deploring the general shiftlessness of the younger people in general and his own son in particular.