As Peter grew wider awake, the monotony of the old negress’s rancor faded into an unobserved noise.  He sat up on the edge of his bed between the parted curtains and divined there was a bath behind the screen in the corner of his room.  Sure enough, he found two frayed but clean towels, a pan, a pitcher, and a small tub all made of tin.  Peter assembled his find and began splashing his heavily molded chest with a feeling of well-being.  As he splashed on the water, he amused himself by listening again to old Rose.  She was now complaining that some white young’uns had called her “raving Rose.”  She hoped “God’lmighty would send down two she bears and eat ’em up.”  Peter was amazed by the old crone’s ability to maintain an unending flow of concentrated and aimless virulence.

The kitchen of the Renfrew manor was a separate building, and presently Peter saw old Rose carrying great platters across the weed-grown compound into the dining-room.  She bore plate after plate piled high with cookery,—­enough for a company of men.  A little later came a clangor on a rusty triangle, as if she were summoning a house party.  Old Rose did things in a wholesale spirit.

Peter started for his door, but when he had opened the shutter, he stood hesitating.  Breakfast introduced another delicate problem.  He decided not to go to the dining-room at once, but to wait and allow Captain Renfrew to indicate whether he, Peter, should break his fast with the master in the dining-room or with old Rose in the kitchen.

A moment later he saw the Captain coming down the long back piazza.  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.

“But whuffo, whuffo, nigger, is it dat you ain’t come to de kitchen an’ eat off’n de shelf?  Is you sick?”

Peter admitted fair bodily vigor.

“Den whut de debbil is I got into!” cried Rose, angrily.  “I ain’t gwine wuck at no sich place, ca’yin’ breakfus’ to a big beef uv a nigger, stout as a mule.  Say, nigger, wha-chu doin’ in heah, anyway?  Hoccum dis?”