“Yes, and the Bentleys of Chicago.”
Bles passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to say, of mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these people and crying: “Ho! What of the morning? How goes the great battle for black men’s rights? I have came with messages from the host, to you who guard the mountain tops.”
Apparently they were not discussing or caring about “the Problem.” He grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his hostess.
‚ÄúIs all well with you, Mr. ¬ÝAlwyn?‚Äù she asked lightly.
“No, I’m not enjoying myself,” said Bles, truthfully.
“Delicious! And why not?”
He regarded her earnestly.
‚ÄúThere are so many things to talk about,‚Äù he said; ‚Äúearnest things; things of importance. I‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI think when our people‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù he hesitated. Our?‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas our right? But he went on: ‚ÄúWhen our people meet we ought to talk of our situation, and what to do and‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Miss Wynn continued to smile.
“We’re all talking of it all the time,” she said.
He looked incredulous.
“Yes, we are,” she insisted. “We veil it a little, and laugh as lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that’s grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic.”
“But I don’t understand.”