She was not wrong. In the warm April afternoon the door and windows were open. As they ascended the steps there floated out to them the hum of well-bred voices, pitched at just the right angle. Mrs. Hunter rushed to greet them and from the sudden stilling of the animated conversation Mimi knew the talk had been about her stepmother and herself. They were conducted around the large living-room and presented to each of the carefully dressed women who sat in a circle whose circumference was only a little less than that of the room. “Pleased to meet you’s,” “Happy to form your acquaintance’s,” “My compliments,” and “How do you do’s” greeted Mrs. Daquin; “What a pretty little girl’s,” and “How cute’s” were Mimi’s portion.
The ordeal ended, Mrs. Daquin subsided into a chair near Mrs. Hunter’s standing approximately at the point where they had started on their circumnavigation of the room. The buzzing conversation began again. Mimi listened to the exchange of recipes and ideas, discussions of the best manner in which jams and jellies and rolls should be prepared, gentle arguments as to the relative desirability of this store or that one.
Mimi looked around the room for Hilda Adams but there were no younger people except herself. She began to feel out of place, to wish she were at home with her sewing or at her piano. Knowing there was no escape she began to examine the women around her. She remembered few of their names but that did not worry her. She noticed that none of the women present were darker than a light brown, their complexions varying from that shade to one indistinguishable from white. Just as this fact came to her she caught a snatch of conversation from a group near her that linked itself startlingly with her own observation.
A slender, very slender, woman with lips which she pressed together closely whenever she began or ended a sentence was talking.
“… it seems Mrs. Adams has been going to the Grand Opera House and buying seats in the orchestra, ‘passing’ for white, and seeing all the