“Oh, I don’t know!  You see, he never goes there in the evening.”

“What of that?  He’s there all day, isn’t he?  What do they find to talk about?  That’s the mystery to me!  Day after day; hours and hours—­My soul!  What do they say?”

Mrs. Baxter laughed indulgently.  “People are always wondering that about the other ages.  Poor Willie!  I think that a great deal of the time their conversation would be probably about as inconsequent as it is now.  You see Willie and Joe Bullitt are walking one on each side of Miss Pratt, and Johnnie Watson has to walk behind with May Parcher.  Joe and Johnnie are there about as much as Willie is, and, of course, it’s often his turn to be nice to May Parcher.  He hasn’t many chances to be tete-a-tete with Miss Pratt.”

“Well, she ought to go home.  I want that boy to get back into his senses.  He’s in an awful state.”

“I think she is going soon,” said Mrs. Baxter.  “The Parchers are to have a dance for her Friday night, and I understand there’s to be a floor laid in the yard and great things.  It’s a farewell party.”

“That’s one mercy, anyhow!”

“And if you wonder what they say,” she resumed, “why, probably they’re all talking about the party.  And when Willie is alone with her—­well, what does anybody say?” Mrs. Baxter interrupted herself to laugh.  “Jane, for instance—­she’s always fascinated by that darky, Genesis, when he’s at work here in the yard, and they have long, long talks; I’ve seen them from the window.  What on earth do you suppose they talk about?  That’s where Jane is now.  She knew I told Genesis I’d give him something if he’d come and freeze the ice-cream for us to-day, and when we got here she heard the freezer and hopped right around there.  If you went out to the back porch you’d find them talking steadily—­but what on earth about I couldn’t guess to save my life!”

And yet nothing could have been simpler:  as a matter of fact, Jane and Genesis (attended by Clematis) were talking about society.  That is to say, their discourse was not sociologic; rather it was of the frivolous and elegant.  Watteau prevailed with them over John Stuart Mill—­in a word, they spoke of the beau monde.

Genesis turned the handle of the freezer with his left hand, allowing his right the freedom of gesture which was an intermittent necessity when he talked.  In the matter of dress, Genesis had always been among the most informal of his race, but to-day there was a change almost unnerving to the Caucasian eye.  He wore a balloonish suit of purple, strangely scalloped at pocket and cuff, and more strangely decorated with lines of small parasite buttons, in color blue, obviously buttons of leisure.  His bulbous new shoes flashed back yellow fire at the embarrassed sun, and his collar (for he had gone so far) sent forth other sparkles, playing upon a polished surface over an inner graining of soot.  Beneath it hung a simple, white, soiled evening tie, draped in a manner unintended by its manufacturer, and heavily overburdened by a green glass medallion of the Emperor Tiberius, set in brass.