“You were a darling to come all the way to Atlanta,” gushed Mary.
“Nothing at all—nothing at all,” declared her father. He pronounced it “nothing a-tall.”
“Wanted to see you get introduced in the right circles, too. Gene thinks his Creole crowd’s stuck-up and exclusive—these Atlanta Negroes’ll show him a trick or two for fair. Got to get in right—or you’ll never get in.”
Jean, who squirmed every time Mr. Robertson familiarly called him “Gene,” found his old hostility to Mr. Robertson, his voice, his ideas, his coarseness, rising higher than ever before. His gratitude to him in the train began to vanish. He wished fervently his father-in-law had remained in Chicago. He hated his high-handed method of interfering in his and Mary’s and Mimi’s most private affairs.
Money—money—money—how much is it worth?—how much can I make out of it?—these were the first, last and intermediate stages of Mr. Robertson’s every thought, every statement, every action. I’ll go through with it, thought Jean, but I’ll never let my soul be turned into a moneygrubber’s. The resolution, even though he knew it couldn’t possibly be carried out completely in this new world he was entering, nevertheless gave Jean some comfort. …
Mrs. Plummer waddled down the hall, pushed open the screen door, and slapped with the corner of her gingham apron at the insects which buzzed inside. “These nasty bugs’ll be the death of me yet,” she complained to her companion, Mrs. Sophronisba King, lean, acidulous, suspicious of all humans and their motives save her own. Mrs. King was as curveless as a young sapling as she went around the room giving quick little jabs at the furniture with an oiled cloth, pursuing relentlessly bits of dust which had settled upon the chairs and table and mantelpiece since late afternoon.