Genesis!

“Nice tongue samwich, suh?  Nice lettuce samwich, lady?” he could be heard vociferating—­perhaps a little too much as if he had sandwiches for sale.  “Lemme jes’ lay this nice green lettuce samwich on you’ plate fer you.”

His wide-spread hand bore the tray of sandwiches high overhead, for his style in waiting was florid, though polished.  He walked with a faint, shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissome pomposity adopted in obedience to the art-sense within him which bade him harmonize himself with occasions of state and fashion.  His manner was the super-supreme expression of graciousness, but the graciousness was innocent, being but an affectation and nothing inward—­for inwardly Genesis was humble.  He was only pretending to be the kind of waiter he would like to be.

And because he was a new waiter he strongly wished to show familiarity with his duties—­familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody.  This yearning, born of self-doubt, and intensified by a slight touch of gin, was beyond question the inspiration of his painful behavior when he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, Miss Parcher, Miss Pratt, Miss Boke, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others—­and William.

“Nice tongue samwich, lady!” he announced, semi-cake-walking beneath his high-borne tray.

“Nice green lettuce sam—­” He came suddenly to a dramatic dead-stop as he beheld William sitting before him, wearing that strange new dignity and Mr. Baxter’s evening clothes.  “Name o’ goo’ness!” Genesis exclaimed, so loudly that every one looked up.  “How in the livin’ worl’ you evuh come to git here?  You’ daddy sut’ny mus’ ‘a’ weakened ’way down ‘fo’ he let you wear his low-cut ves’ an’ pants an’ long-tail coat!  I bet any man fifty cents you gone an’ stole ’em out aftuh he done went to bed!”

And he burst into a wild, free African laugh.

At seventeen such things are not embarrassing; they are catastrophical.  But, mercifully, catastrophes often produce a numbness in the victims.  More as in a trance than actually William heard the outbreak of his young companions; and, during the quarter of an hour subsequent to Genesis’s performance, the oft-renewed explosions of their mirth made but a kind of horrid buzzing in his ears.  Like sounds borne from far away were the gaspings of Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their strength to obtain mastery of themselves once more.

...  A flourish of music challenged the dancers.  Couples appeared upon the platform.

The dreadful supper was over.

The ineffable One, supremely pink, rose from her seat at William’s side and moved toward the platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt.  Then William, roused to action by this sight, sprang to his feet and took a step toward them.  But it was only one weak step.

A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly inside the crook of his elbow.  “Let’s get started for this one before the floor gets all crowded up,” said Miss Boke.