It was eighteen little months ago that she had ridden up to the world with widening eyes. In that time what had happened? Everything. How well she remembered her coming, the first reflection of yonder gilded dome and the soaring of the capitol; the swelling of her heart, with inarticulate wonder; the pain of the thirst to know and understand. She did not know much now but she had learned how to find things out. She did not understand all, but some things she‚ÅÝ‚Äî
‚ÄúTicket‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe tone was harsh and abrupt. Zora started. She had always noted how polite conductors were to her and Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas it simply because Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool was evidently a great and rich lady? She held up her ticket and he snatched it from her muttering some direction.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Change at Charlotte,” he snapped as he went on.
It seemed to Zora that his discourtesy was almost forced: that he was afraid he might be betrayed into some show of consideration for a black woman. She felt no anger, she simply wondered what he feared. The increasing smell of tobacco smoke started her coughing. She turned. To be sure. Not only was the door to the smoker standing open, but a white passenger was in her car, sitting by the conductor and puffing heartily. As the black porter passed her she said gently:
“Is smoking allowed in here?”
“It ain’t non o’ my business,” he flung back at her and moved away. All day white men passed back and forward through the car as through a thoroughfare. They talked loudly and laughed and joked, and if they did not smoke they carried their lighted cigars. At her they stared and made comments, and one of them came and lounged almost over her seat, inquiring where she was going.