Peter almost addressed his host, but the old Southerner proceeded into
the dining-room apparently without seeing Peter at all.
The guest was gathering his breath to call good morning, but took the
cue with a negro's sensitiveness, and let his eyes run along the weeds
in the compound. The drying stalks were woven with endless spider-webs,
all white with frost. Peter stood regarding their delicate geometries a
moment longer and then reentered his room, not knowing precisely what to
do. He could hear Rose walking across the piazza to and from the dining-
room, and the clink of tableware. A few minutes later a knock came at
his door, and the old woman entered with a huge salver covered with
steaming dishes.
The negress came into the room scowling, and seemed doubtful for a
moment just how to shut the door and still hold the tray with both
hands. She solved the problem by backing against the door tremendously.
Then she saw Peter. She straightened and stared at him with outraged
dignity.
"Well, 'fo' Gawd! Is I bringin' dish-here breakfus' to a nigger?"
"I suppose it's mine," agreed Peter, amused.
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