head of cauliflower. She hated cauliflower and never ate it. “Who, Kaka dear?” she now asked absent-mindedly. “H’m?” with an air of dreamy preoccupation which would have deceived no one, least of all the astute Kakaracou. “What a lovely choufleur.’“
“Who, Kaka dear, who, Kaka dear!” Wickedly the Negress mimicked her in a kind of poisonous baby-talk. “You and your cauliflower head there, you’re two of a kind.”
Clio decided that the time had now come for dignity. In her role of Madame la Comtesse she now drew herself up and looked down her nose at Kaka. The effect of this was somewhat spoiled by the fact that Kaka glared balefully back, completely uncowed. “We will now go to the Cathedral. Kaka, you will accompany me. Cupide, you will go home with your basket, quickly, then return and wait outside the church. Vite!”
At the Market curb stood an open victoria for hire, its shabby cushions a faded green, its two sorry nags hanging listless heads. The black charioteer was as decrepit as his equipage. “We’ll ride,” Clio announced, grandly. “I’m tired. It’s hot. I’m hungry.”
The black man bowed, his smile a brilliant gash that made sunshine in the sable face. His gesture of invitation toward the sagging carriage made of it a state coach, of its occupants royalty. “Yas’m, yas’m. Jes’ the evening for ride out to the lake, yas’m.”
“Evening! Why, it’s hardly noon!”
“Yas’m, yas’m. Puffic evening for ride out to the lake.”
She set one foot in its gray kid shoe on the carriage step.
“Ma’am,” said a soft, rather drawling voice behind her, “Ma’am, I hate to see anybody as plumb beautiful as you ride in a moth-eaten old basket like this, let alone those two nags to pull it. If you’ll honor me, Ma’am, by using my carriage, I’m driving a pair of long-tailed bays to a clarence, I brought them all the way from Texas, and they’re beauties and thoroughbreds, just like—well, that sounds terrible, I didn’t mean to compare you, Ma’am, with—I meant if you’d just allow me—”
Standing there on the carriage step she had turned in amazement to find her face almost on a level with his as he stood at the curb. The blue eyes were blazing down upon her. He had taken off the great white sombrero. The Texas wind and sun that had bronzed the cheeks to startlingly near her own had burned the chestnut hair to a lively red-gold. For one terrible moment the two swayed together as though drawn by some magnetic force; then she drew back, and as she did so she realized with great definiteness that she wanted to feel his ruddy sun-warmed cheek against hers. She said, “Sir!” like any milk-and-water miss, turned away from him in majestic disapproval and seated herself in the carriage, whose cushion springs, playing her false, let her down in a rather undignified heap. His left hand still held the coffee cup. Unrebuffed, he strode toward the stall to set this down, and at that moment the outraged Kakaracou gave the signal to Cupide. That imp set down his laden basket. The Texan’s back was toward him, a broad target. With the force and precision of a goat Cupide ran straight at him, head lowered, and butted him from behind. The coffee cup went flying, spattering the café au lait trousers with a deeper tone. Another man would have fallen, but the Texan’s muscles were steel, his balance perfect. He pitched forward, stumbled, bent almost double, but he did not fall, he miraculously recovered himself. The white hat had fallen from his hand, it rolled like a hoop into a little pile of decayed vegetables at the curb. Across the open square, skipping along toward the Vieux Carré, you saw the figure of the dwarf almost obscured by the heavy basket.
A gasp had gone up from the market, and a snicker—but a small and smothered snicker. The flying blue coattails had revealed the silver-studded belt as being not purely ornamental. A businesslike holster hung suspended
“Who, Kaka dear, who, Kaka dear!” Wickedly the Negress mimicked her in a kind of poisonous baby-talk. “You and your cauliflower head there, you’re two of a kind.”
Clio decided that the time had now come for dignity. In her role of Madame la Comtesse she now drew herself up and looked down her nose at Kaka. The effect of this was somewhat spoiled by the fact that Kaka glared balefully back, completely uncowed. “We will now go to the Cathedral. Kaka, you will accompany me. Cupide, you will go home with your basket, quickly, then return and wait outside the church. Vite!”
At the Market curb stood an open victoria for hire, its shabby cushions a faded green, its two sorry nags hanging listless heads. The black charioteer was as decrepit as his equipage. “We’ll ride,” Clio announced, grandly. “I’m tired. It’s hot. I’m hungry.”
The black man bowed, his smile a brilliant gash that made sunshine in the sable face. His gesture of invitation toward the sagging carriage made of it a state coach, of its occupants royalty. “Yas’m, yas’m. Jes’ the evening for ride out to the lake, yas’m.”
“Evening! Why, it’s hardly noon!”
“Yas’m, yas’m. Puffic evening for ride out to the lake.”
She set one foot in its gray kid shoe on the carriage step.
“Ma’am,” said a soft, rather drawling voice behind her, “Ma’am, I hate to see anybody as plumb beautiful as you ride in a moth-eaten old basket like this, let alone those two nags to pull it. If you’ll honor me, Ma’am, by using my carriage, I’m driving a pair of long-tailed bays to a clarence, I brought them all the way from Texas, and they’re beauties and thoroughbreds, just like—well, that sounds terrible, I didn’t mean to compare you, Ma’am, with—I meant if you’d just allow me—”
Standing there on the carriage step she had turned in amazement to find her face almost on a level with his as he stood at the curb. The blue eyes were blazing down upon her. He had taken off the great white sombrero. The Texas wind and sun that had bronzed the cheeks to startlingly near her own had burned the chestnut hair to a lively red-gold. For one terrible moment the two swayed together as though drawn by some magnetic force; then she drew back, and as she did so she realized with great definiteness that she wanted to feel his ruddy sun-warmed cheek against hers. She said, “Sir!” like any milk-and-water miss, turned away from him in majestic disapproval and seated herself in the carriage, whose cushion springs, playing her false, let her down in a rather undignified heap. His left hand still held the coffee cup. Unrebuffed, he strode toward the stall to set this down, and at that moment the outraged Kakaracou gave the signal to Cupide. That imp set down his laden basket. The Texan’s back was toward him, a broad target. With the force and precision of a goat Cupide ran straight at him, head lowered, and butted him from behind. The coffee cup went flying, spattering the café au lait trousers with a deeper tone. Another man would have fallen, but the Texan’s muscles were steel, his balance perfect. He pitched forward, stumbled, bent almost double, but he did not fall, he miraculously recovered himself. The white hat had fallen from his hand, it rolled like a hoop into a little pile of decayed vegetables at the curb. Across the open square, skipping along toward the Vieux Carré, you saw the figure of the dwarf almost obscured by the heavy basket.
A gasp had gone up from the market, and a snicker—but a small and smothered snicker. The flying blue coattails had revealed the silver-studded belt as being not purely ornamental. A businesslike holster hung suspended
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