She confronted his merriment with eyes of mournful rebuke; but as she could not find him, or the harshest construction, in the least to blame, she was silent.

“Never mind, dear, never mind,” he coaxed, “you were really not responsible.  It was fatigue, destiny, the spite of fortune,—­whatever you like.  In the case of the others, whom you despise so justly, I dare say it is sheer, disgraceful affection.  But see that ravishing placard, swinging from the roof:  ’This train stops twenty minutes for dinner at Utica.’  In a few minutes more we shall be at Utica.  If they have anything edible there, it shall never contract my powers.  I could dine at the Albany station, even.”

In a little while they found themselves in an airy, comfortable dining-room, eating a dinner, which it seemed to them France in the flush of her prosperity need not have blushed to serve; for if it wanted a little in the last graces of art, it redeemed itself in abundance, variety, and wholesomeness.  At the elbow of every famishing passenger stood a beneficent coal-black glossy fairy, in a white linen apron and jacket, serving him with that alacrity and kindliness and grace which make the negro waiter the master, not the slave of his calling, which disenthrall it of servility, and constitute him your eager host, not your menial, for the moment.  From table to table passed a calming influence in the person of the proprietor, who, as he took his richly earned money, checked the rising fears of the guests by repeated proclamations that there was plenty of time, and that he would give them due warning before the train started.  Those who had flocked out of the cars, to prey with beak and claw, as the vulture-like fashion is, upon everything in reach, remained to eat like Christians; and even a poor, scantily-Englished Frenchman, who wasted half his time in trying to ask how long the cars stopped and in looking at his watch, made a good dinner in spite of himself.

“O Basil, Basil!” cried Isabel, when the train was again in motion, “have we really dined once more?  It seems too good to be true.  Cleanliness, plenty, wholesomeness, civility!  Yes, as you say, they cannot be civil where they are not just; honesty and courtesy go together; and wherever they give you outrageous things to eat, they add indigestible insults.  Basil, dear, don’t be jealous; I shall never meet him again; but I’m in love with that black waiter at our table.  I never saw such perfect manners, such a winning and affectionate politeness.  He made me feel that every mouthful I ate was a personal favor to him.  What a complete gentleman.  There ought never to be a white waiter.  None but negroes are able to render their service a pleasure and distinction to you.”