At home Jean found but little more understanding. His wife, busy with her own affairs and having little contact other than with her friends and with shopkeepers who carefully concealed their feelings, scoffed at his forebodings. “You’re not used to anything like this and you’re too easily scared,” she laughed. “ Mrs. Hunter tells me they have lots of situations here just as delicate and they’ve all blown over in time. Same as this one will blow over as soon as the hot weather ends.” Her air of finality in citing Mrs. Hunter as authority convinced Jean there was little need of pursuing the subject further in that direction.
Mimi was more sympathetic but she showed by her puzzled frown she did not comprehend his reasons for worrying.
“White people—and coloured people—you didn’t used to separate people into such definite classes before you left New Orleans, papa Jean!” she declared, somewhat confused. “After all, what real difference does it make? A difference in colour, different hair, different features, but what do those matter in the long run? Why can’t people be just people and stop all this meanness?”
“That isn’t the point right now, Mimi,” he explained. “I suppose it’s silly but I’m worried—this thing’s mighty serious, and it may be you and I and the rest of us may see some pretty dark scenes. Oh, why did I ever leave New Orleans? I’d never have had all this trouble—at least, it wouldn’t have been so terrifying—”
“It’ll blow over,” Mimi comforted him.
“Blow over”! There was that phrase of Mrs. Hunter’s again. He was miserable. He saw his old house in Louisiana, his garden, his flowers. He could almost see his old friends, Bernard, Pierre, André. He wished he