"Not this minute," confessed the girl; "but," and she shrugged her shoulders, "I probably shall tomorrow! I know myself well enough for that; and I won't lie--to you! You saw how he could make me cry? It is only the man we care for who can hurt us." The Marquise did not reply; she was staring out of the window. Kora, watching her, did not know if she heard. She had heard and was angry with herself that her heart grew lighter when she heard the name of Kora's lover. "I--I will not intrude longer, Madame," said the girl at last. "What you've said will make me think more. I never heard of what you've told me today. I wish there were women in America like you; oh, I wish there were! There are good white ladies there, of course, but they don't teach the slaves to think; they only tell them to have faith! They teach them from their bible; and all I could ever remember of it was: 'Servants, obey your masters;' and I hated it. So you see, Madame, it is too late for me; I don't know any other life; I--" "I will help you to a different life whenever you are willing to leave Paris," said the Marquise. "You would do that, Madame?" Kora dropped into the chair again, covering her face with her hands. After a little she looked up, and the cunning of her class was in her eyes. "Is it to separate me from _him_?" she asked, bluntly. "I know they want him to marry; are you a friend of his family?" The Marquise smiled at that. "I really do not know if he has a family," she replied. "I am interested because it seems so pitiful that a girl should never have had a chance to live commendably. It is not too late. In your own country a person of your intelligence and education should be able to do much good among the children of the free colored people. You would be esteemed. You--" "Esteemed!" Kora smiled skeptically, thinking no doubt of the half-world circle over which she was a power in her adopted city; she, who had only to show herself in the spectacle to make more money than a year's earnings in American school teaching. She knew she could not really dance, but she did pose in a manner rather good; and then, her beauty! "I was a fool when I came here--to Paris," she said woefully. "I thought everybody would know I was colored, so I told. But they would not know," and she held out her hand, looking at the white wrist, "I could have said I was a West Indian, a Brazilian, or a Spanish Creole--as many others do. But it is all too late. America was never kind to my people, or me. You mean to be kind, Madame; but you don't know colored folks. They would be the first to resent my educational advantages; not that I know much; books were hard work for me, and Paris was the only one I could learn to read easy. As for America, I own up, I'm afraid of America." The Marquise thought she knew why, but only said: