"They, the doctors, set up what they silently look upon as society, "blue-veined people." How they must deplore that they are colored, in a literal sense! "We are the best people!" they cry. The insurance companies, started and led to their present position of success by black men, use every means, subtle and otherwise, to throw business to these men. Likewise do the lodges. And with all that, not more than a dozen or so are making a decent living in Attalia. We are still very poor people. Yet when society comes before us, the black ones are not good enough to play for. We must close. It makes us sick!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN "_Why Do You Look At Me So Strangely?_" The first books came, and among the many orders to be delivered, was one for the girl who had reminded Wyeth of a person who now belonged to a closed chapter of his life. He carried her the book. "My madam has not paid me yet," she said regretfully, "but if you can bring it back next week, I will be delighted to take it." He did so, and she was as good as her word. "I hope I shall enjoy it," she said, as she paid him. "I hope so too," said he. "Practically all I have sold to told me that they liked it," he added. He looked at her, and while he was not aware of it, in that moment he had an insane desire. The past and the one connected with it, rose for one brief second before him, as he had known it. She noted the strange look, and was embarrassed. Presently she recovered from the effect it had, and said: "Why do you look at me so strangely?" "I don't know," he replied, non-committally. She did not understand it, but blushed as she said: "You are indeed a strange person.... I have thought about it more than once, since you were here and took my order. Do you look at all your lady customers like that?" She looked full into his eyes as she said this, but what she saw there made her hastily retract. "I was only joking. You are singular--strange, and--I do not know what to think of you; but you are more than an ordinary agent for the book. I'm sure of that." He remained silent. She looked keenly at the picture, and then at him. A small mustache and a different style in the trimming of his hair; but she inquired suddenly: "Did you write this book? The picture resembles you." He looked innocent and said: "Do you think so?" "Indeed I do," she insisted. '"Then you wrote it?" "Oh no, indeed," he lied, earnestly.