I made the journey in a motor painted grey--a stylish one upholstered in velvet, and there were things inside to blow and touch for convenience. Be not disillusioned--it did not belong to me. It and the chauffeur were loaned for the occasion by my married sister. Yes, of course, married, because I believe that was what she married for. Anyway, I sat back in this rapidly moving equipage, looking, I believe, very comfortable, but feeling, I am sure, very--now just how did I feel, not very, but “ante turban trepidat.” I was shaky and overcome with the same feeling that one has when about to make his first public speech, or at least as I imagine one would feel. However, we had reached the outskirts of the city; the air was pungent with ozone and there was a wafting fragrance of woods--just woods. I carried the directions of my destination in my hand, written on a slip of white paper. “Keep straight ahead on Falls Road, turn west from Lake Avenue to first road running north; then turn east. First house to the right,” the paper read. We had ridden but a short distance after leaving the city--entirely too short for me to compose myself, when the first house to the right began distinctly to outline itself on the horizon. The feeling of trepidation which possessed me intensified itself as we drove up to the door and stopped. Two dogs appeared and barked, but did not approach me. I say they did not approach me, yet the only thing I was entirely certain of that second was a black crepe that hung from the door; it appeared blacker than black, because a bunch of snow white roses unrelieved by green leaves caught the folds and held them. My fingers shook in an endeavor to separate one of my visiting cards from the pasty tissues that divided them, but they stuck closer than a mustard plaster. Before I was ready the door was opened by a neatly dressed, middle-aged colored woman. Without glancing at me or my card she informed me that Professor Symonds could not be seen. But I insisted I must, I really must see him. She then scrutinized me closely, she looked me through and through, and I saw she was completely fooled. I was suffocated with shame when I thought of my subterfuge, for I had attired myself in deep mourning--an outfit left from a recent period of mourning after my brother’s death, as was also my black-edged card. “But, honey, he’s ’tirely done give out. I knows he won’t see no-body.” “I’ve come so far, do inquire,” I pleaded. “Well, jess you wait here and I’ll see. He’s right in there,” she said, pointing to a room nearby with her head. “Mayn’t I just go in, he’ll not mind,” I lied. “You sure, Miss?” the look in her eyes adding force to the question. “Quite sure.” I followed her as she turned the knob on the sacred door and announced me. She opened it a bit wider. I was close behind, and before anything else happened I was in.