"Of course. Now, for instance, why is the King of Hearts the only one that hasn't a moustache?" Patricia peeped to see what cards lay beneath that monarch, and upon reflection moved the King of Spades into the vacant space. She was a devotee of solitaire and invariably cheated at it. She went on, absently: "But don't you see? That colored boy was your own first cousin, and he was killed for doing exactly what his father had done. Only they sent the father to the Senate and gave him columns of flubdub and laid him out in state when he died--and they poured kerosene upon the son and burned him alive. And I believe Virginia thinks that wasn't fair." "What do you mean?" "I honestly believe Virginia hates the Musgraves. She is only a negro, of course, but then she was a mother once--Oh, yes! all I need is a black eight--" Patricia demanded, "Now look at your brother Hector--the awfully dissipated one that died of an overdose of opiates. When it happened wasn't Virginia taking care of him?" "Of course. She is an invaluable nurse." "And nobody else was here when Agatha went out into the rain. Now, what if she had just let Agatha go, without trying to stop her? It would have been perfectly simple. So is this. All I have to do is to take them off now." Colonel Musgrave negligently returned to his perusal of the afternoon paper. "You are suggesting--if you will overlook my frankness--the most deplorable sort of nonsense, Patricia." "I know exactly how Balaam felt," she said, irrelevantly, and fell to shuffling the cards. "You don't, and you won't, understand that Virginia is a human being. In any event, I wish you would get rid of her." "I couldn't decently do that," said Rudolph Musgrave, with careful patience. "Virginia's faithfulness has been proven by too many years of faithful service. Nothing more strikingly attests the folly of freeing the negro than the unwillingness of the better class of slaves to leave their former owners--" "Now you are going to quote a paragraph or so from your Gracious Era. As if I hadn't read everything you ever wrote! You are a fearful humbug in some ways, Rudolph." "And you are a red-headed rattlepate, madam. But seriously, Patricia, you who were reared in the North are strangely unwilling to concede that we of the South are after all best qualified to deal with the Negro Problem. We know the negro as you cannot ever know him."