on a leer, and a manner of portentous and cryptic winking. The stories themselves did not so much disgust him—he had indulged frequently in racy wit and repartee with his old cronies at home—it was their general stupidity and their clinging to one theme.
Jean formed more and more the habit of spending his time at home, despite his wife’s constant urging that he go out and “mingle more with the men and make himself more sociable.” He read indefatigably, sitting in his room, summer and winter, until the early hours of the morning, or until his wife forced him to retire. She, on the other hand, berated and criticized him much less than in those last few months before he consented to move from New Orleans. Jean quite frankly and with an equanimity which amazed him realized they had grown farther apart than ever and were continuing to find their pleasure in widely diverse fields. Mrs. Daquin, under Mrs. Hunter’s dexterous management, had been extended and had accepted an invitation to join the Fleur-de-Lis Club. More and more Mrs. Daquin, to her intense delight, found herself accepted into the inner circle of Negro society and she soon was able with entire naturalness to speak pityingly of those who were not of the elect.
She had won, too, her efforts towards religious conformity by Jean and Mimi, though this victory had come from an unexpected ally. She had gone, not unprotestingly, with Jean and Mimi to one of the local Catholic churches. There they had been refused admission in a firm and unmistakable rebuff, amazement having been expressed that they had even dared to think they could attend services there. Jean, grieved, his faith shaken, had gone later to see the priest, protesting against the refusal of admittance, but he had received cold comfort—even his question (that was more a protest than an interrogation) as to whether or not the Virgin Mary blessed or withheld blessing from Catholics whose skins were dark, remained unanswered.