They sat on Meredith's big porch in the late twilight and ate a

substantial refection, and when this was finished, a buzz of nonsense rose

from all quarters, except the remote corners where the youthful affianced

ones had defensively stationed themselves behind a rampart of plants.

They, having eaten, had naught to do, and were only waiting a decent hour

for departure. Laughing voices passed up and down the street, and mingled

with the rhythmic plashing of Meredith's fountain, and, beyond the

shrubberies and fence, one caught glimpses of the light dresses of women

moving to and fro, and of people sitting bareheaded on neighboring lawns

to enjoy the twilight. Now and then would pass, with pipe and dog, the

beflanneled figure of an undergraduate, home for vacation, or a trio of

youths in knickerbockers, or a band of young girls, or both trio and band

together; and from a cross street, near by, came the calls and laughter of

romping children and the pulsating whirr of a lawn-mower: This sound

Harkless remarked as a ceaseless accompaniment to life in Rouen; even in

the middle of the night there was always some unfortunate, cutting grass.

When the daylight was all gone, and the stars had crept out, strolling

negroes patrolled the sidewalks, thrumming mandolins and guitars, and

others came and went, singing, making the night Venetian. The untrained,

joyous voices, chording eerily in their sweet, racial minors, came on the

air, sometimes from far away. But there swung out a chorus from fresh,

Aryan throats, in the house south of Meredith's: 'Where, oh where, are the grave old Seniors?

Safe, now, in the wide, wide world!"

"Doesn't that thrill you, boy?" said Meredith, joining the group about

Harkless's chair. "Those fellows are Sophomores, class of heaven knows

what. Aren't you feeling a fossil. Father Abraham?"

A banjo chattered on the lawn to the north, and soon a mixed chorus of

girls and boys sang from there: "O, 'Arriet, I'm waiting, waiting alone out 'ere."

Then a piano across the street sounded the dearthful harmonies of Chopin's

Funeral March.

"You may take your choice," remarked Meredith, flicking a spark over the

rail in the ash of his cigar, "Chopping or Chevalier."

"Chopin, my friend," said the lady who had attached herself to Harkless.

She tapped Tom's shoulder with her fan and smiled, graciously corrective.

"Thank you, Miss Hinsdale," he answered, gratefully. "And as I, perhaps,

had better say, since otherwise there might be a pause and I am the host,

we have a wide selection. In addition to what is provided at present, I

predict that within the next ten minutes a talented girl who lives two

doors south will favor us with the Pilgrims' Chorus, piano arrangement,

break down in the middle, and drift, into 'Rastus on Parade,' while a

double quartette of middle-aged colored gentlemen under our Jim will make

choral offering in our own back yard."




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