They sat on Meredith's big porch in the late twilight and ate a
substantial refection, and when this was finished, a buzz of nonsense rose
from all quarters, except the remote corners where the youthful affianced
ones had defensively stationed themselves behind a rampart of plants.
They, having eaten, had naught to do, and were only waiting a decent hour
for departure. Laughing voices passed up and down the street, and mingled
with the rhythmic plashing of Meredith's fountain, and, beyond the
shrubberies and fence, one caught glimpses of the light dresses of women
moving to and fro, and of people sitting bareheaded on neighboring lawns
to enjoy the twilight. Now and then would pass, with pipe and dog, the
beflanneled figure of an undergraduate, home for vacation, or a trio of
youths in knickerbockers, or a band of young girls, or both trio and band
together; and from a cross street, near by, came the calls and laughter of
romping children and the pulsating whirr of a lawn-mower: This sound
Harkless remarked as a ceaseless accompaniment to life in Rouen; even in
the middle of the night there was always some unfortunate, cutting grass.
When the daylight was all gone, and the stars had crept out, strolling
negroes patrolled the sidewalks, thrumming mandolins and guitars, and
others came and went, singing, making the night Venetian. The untrained,
joyous voices, chording eerily in their sweet, racial minors, came on the
air, sometimes from far away. But there swung out a chorus from fresh,
Aryan throats, in the house south of Meredith's: 'Where, oh where, are the grave old Seniors?
Safe, now, in the wide, wide world!"
"Doesn't that thrill you, boy?" said Meredith, joining the group about
Harkless's chair. "Those fellows are Sophomores, class of heaven knows
what. Aren't you feeling a fossil. Father Abraham?"
A banjo chattered on the lawn to the north, and soon a mixed chorus of
girls and boys sang from there: "O, 'Arriet, I'm waiting, waiting alone out 'ere."
Then a piano across the street sounded the dearthful harmonies of Chopin's
Funeral March.
"You may take your choice," remarked Meredith, flicking a spark over the
rail in the ash of his cigar, "Chopping or Chevalier."
"Chopin, my friend," said the lady who had attached herself to Harkless.
She tapped Tom's shoulder with her fan and smiled, graciously corrective.
"Thank you, Miss Hinsdale," he answered, gratefully. "And as I, perhaps,
had better say, since otherwise there might be a pause and I am the host,
we have a wide selection. In addition to what is provided at present, I
predict that within the next ten minutes a talented girl who lives two
doors south will favor us with the Pilgrims' Chorus, piano arrangement,
break down in the middle, and drift, into 'Rastus on Parade,' while a
double quartette of middle-aged colored gentlemen under our Jim will make
choral offering in our own back yard."