She laughed.  November rain running off a broken spout.  Yellow leaves scuttling ahead of wind.

“The picture puzzle is now complete, Morton.  Your whole scheme, piece by piece.  You’re about as subtle as corn bread.  Well, my answer to you again is, ‘Get out!’”

“All right.  All right.  But we’ll both get out, Hattie.  Come, I’m a-goin’ to call on you-all up home a little while this evenin’!”

“No.  It’s late.  She’s—­”

“Come, Hattie, you know I’m a-goin’ to see that girl one way or another.  If you want me to catch that fruit steamer to-morrow, if I were you I’d let me see her my way.  You know I’m not much on raisin’ my voice, but if I were you, Hattie, I wouldn’t fight me.”

“Morton—­Morton, listen!  If you’ll take that fruit steamer without trying to see her—­would you?  You’re on your uppers.  I understand.  Would a hundred—­two hundred—­”

“I used to light my cigarette with that much down on my rice swamps—­”

“You see, Morton, she’s such a little thing.  A little thing with big eyes.  All her life those eyes have looked right down into me, believing everything I ever told her.  About you too, Morton.  Good things.  Not that I’m ashamed of anything I ever told her.  My only wrong was ignorance.  And innocence.  Innocence of the kind of lesson I was to learn from you.”

“Nothin’ was ever righted by harping on it, Hattie.”

“But I want you to understand—­O God, make him understand—­she’s such a sensitive little thing.  And as things stand now—­glad I’m her mother.  Yes, glad—­black-face and all!  Why, many’s the time I’ve gone home from the theater, too tired to take off my make-up until I got into my own rocker with my ankles soaking in warm water.  They swell so terribly sometimes.  Rheumatism, I guess.  Well, many a time when I kissed her in her sleep she’s opened her eyes on me—­black-face and all.  Her arms up and around me.  I was there underneath the black!  She knows that!  And that’s what she’ll always know about me, no matter what you tell her.  I’m there—­her mother—­underneath the black!  You hear, Morton!  That’s why you must let us—­live—­”

“My proposition is the mighty decent one of a gentleman.”

“She’s only a little baby, Morton.  And just at that age where being like all the other boys and girls is the whole of her little life.  It’s killing—­all her airiness and fads and fancies.  Such a proper little young lady.  You know, the way they clip and trim them at finishing school.  Sweet-sixteen nonsense that she’ll outgrow.  To-night, Morton, she’s at a party.  A boy’s.  Her first.  That fine-looking yellow-haired young fellow and his sister that bring her home every afternoon.  At their house.  Gramercy Park.  A fine young fellow—­Phi Pi—­”

“Looka here, Hattie, are you talking against time?”