The exchange was soon made, Miss Wynn tying the new one herself and sticking a small carved pin in it. Bles slowly sat down again, and after a pause said, “Thank you.”
She looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and good-natured.
“You see,” he explained, “in the country we don’t know much about ties.”
The well-balanced Miss Wynn for a moment lost her aplomb, but only for a moment.
“We must all learn,” she replied with penetration, and so their friendship was established.
The company now began to gather, and soon the double parlor held an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. They formed a picturesque group: conventional but graceful in dress; animated in movement; full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-American in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones; chiefly noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color in skin, which imparted to the throng a piquant and unusual interest. Every color was here; from the dark brown of Alwyn, who was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of Miss Jones, who could ‚Äúpass for white‚Äù when she would, and found her greatest difficulties when she was trying to ‚Äúpass‚Äù for black. Midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of the church, the creamy Miss Williams, the golden yellow of Mr. ¬ÝTeerswell, the golden brown of Miss Johnson, and the velvet brown of Mr. ¬ÝGrey. The guest themselves did not notice this; they were used to asking one‚Äôs color as one asks of height and weight; it was simply an extra dimension in their world whereby to classify men.
Beyond this and their hair, there was little to distinguish them from a modern group of men and women. The speech was a softened English,