"What do you want two-bits for, you infernal beggar?" "To buy me a drink with, please, suh. My th'oat's dusty." "A damn good reason for a damn impudent request," Richard Darcy would grumble, his hand going into his pocket. Once Joan heard a dressy youth, who was at the moment rubbing a special polish onto Pegasus, remark: "Dat's a mighty fine tie you-all's wearin' dis mawnin', suh. Gimme hit?" "Well, of all the infernal cheek!" cried the Major. "Gimme hit when hit's done worn out, den?" "D'you think I've nothing better to do than watch my clothes for signs of wear so that I may present them to _you_, you ugly rascal? I will not!" But some days later Joan recognized on the negro's neck the tie in question, which appeared to have worn out with unprecedented rapidity. From signs like this Joan came to the conclusion that there existed between Richard Darcy and the negroes something of the same affinity as between the negro and the horse. They were all part together of a day that has passed. It was another of the records of the old South for which she was constantly looking; and a far finer, truer relation it seemed to her than the mistrust and dislike which independence has latterly fostered between the races. She recalled that her father had never in his life spoken of his family's servants as "our slaves," but always as "our people." To him all negroes were still "our people"; a responsibility and a charge, to be kept in order, bullied perhaps, but protected, too, because of their great need of protection. And to all negroes, if to no one else in the world, Richard Darcy was a great man, one of the masters. She tried to express something of this idea once to Archie Blair, who was always so eager to follow her mental excursions that she sometimes made the mistake of believing he did follow them. But for once he disagreed with his oracle utterly. "Niggers are the curse of the South," he announced. "Always have been and always will be." She attempted to make him explain this peremptory point of view, but Archie was not very good at explaining. He was one of the people who know what they know without knowing why they know it (blood-brothers to those art-critics who are always aware of what they like when they see it). Such do not shine in debate. He could only shake his head and repeat his conviction that niggers were the curse of the South. She changed the subject rather impatiently. She would have liked to retort that well-bred people at least do not call them "niggers." But somehow Archibald was not fair game.