She crept back presently and packed the crepe house-coat with the other
things. Then, since Aunt Claudia made no sign, she went down-stairs to
the kitchen.
Mandy, the cook, who had a complexion like an old copper cent, and who
wore a white Dutch cap in place of the traditional bandana, was cutting
corn from the cob for fritters.
"If you'll make a cup of tea," Becky said, "I'll take it up to Aunt
Claudia. She's lying down."
"Is you goin' wid her?" Mandy asked.
"To New York? No. She'll want Truxton all to herself, Mandy."
"Well, I hopes she has him," Mandy husked an ear of corn viciously. "I
ain' got my boy. He hol's his haid so high, he ain' got no time fo' his
ol' Mammy."
"You know you are proud of him, Mandy."
"I ain' sayin' I is, and I ain' sayin' I isn't. But dat Daisy down the
road, she ac' like she own him."
"Oh, Daisy? Is he in love with her?"
"Love," with withering scorn, "_love_? Ain' he got somefin' bettah to do
than lovin' when he's jes' fit and fought fo' Uncle Sam?" She beat the
eggs for her batter as if she had Daisy's head under the whip. "He fit
and fought fo' Uncle Sam," she repeated, "and now he comes home and
camps hisse'f on Daisy's do'-step."
Against the breeze of such high indignation, any argument would be blown
away.
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