"
Next morning Peter Siner was awakened by old Rose Hobbett thrusting her
head in at his door, staring around, and finally, seeing Peter in bed,
grumbling:
"Why is you still heah, black man?"
The secretary opened his eyes in astonishment.
"Why shouldn't I be here?"
"Nobody wuz 'speckin' you to be heah." The crone withdrew her head and
vanished.
Peter wondered at this unaccustomed interest of Rose, then hurried out
of bed, supposing himself late for breakfast.
A dense fog had come up from the river, and the moisture floating into
his open windows had dampened his whole room. Peter stepped briskly to
the screen and began splashing himself. It was only in the midst of his
ablutions that he remembered his inspiration and resolve of the previous
evening. As he squeezed the water over his powerfully molded body, he
recalled it almost impersonally. It might have happened to some third
person. He did not even recall distinctly the threads of the logic which
had lifted him to such a Pisgah, and showed him the whole South as a new
and promised land.
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