While Bles Alwyn in the outer office was waiting and musing, a lady came in. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the curve of her gown, and as she seated herself beside him, the suggestion of a faint perfume. A vague resentment rose in him. Colored women would look as well as that, he argued, with the clothes and wealth and training. He paused, however, in his thought: he did not want them like the whites‚ÅÝ‚Äîso cold and formal and precise, without heart or marrow. He started up, for the secretary was speaking to him.
‚ÄúAre you the‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe man who had a letter to the Senator?‚Äù
“Yes, sir.”
‚ÄúLet me see it. Oh, yes‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe will see you in a moment.‚Äù
Bles was returning the letter to his pocket when he heard a voice almost at his ear.
‚ÄúI beg your pardon‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
He turned and started. It was the lady next to him, and she was colored! Not extremely colored, but undoubtedly colored, with waving black hair, light brown skin, and the fuller facial curving of the darker world. And yet Bles was surprised, for everything else about her‚ÅÝ‚Äîher voice, her bearing, the set of her gown, her gloves and shoes, the whole impression was‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBles hesitated for a word‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, ‚Äúwhite.‚Äù
‚ÄúYes‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes, ma‚Äôam,‚Äù he stammered, becoming suddenly conscious that the lady had now a second time asked him if he was acquainted with Senator Smith. ‚ÄúThat is, ma‚Äôam,‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhy was he saying ‚Äúma‚Äôam,‚Äù like a child or a servant?‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI know his sister and have a letter for him.‚Äù
“Do you live in Washington?” she inquired.