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 Cissie's appreciation was the sedative Peter needed. The relief of her laughter and her presence ran along his nerves and unkinked them, like a draft of Kentucky Special after a debauch. The curves of her cheek, the tilt of her head, and the lift of her dull-blue blouse at the bosom wove a great restfulness about Peter. The brooch of old gold glinted at her throat. The heavy screen of the arbor gave them a sweet sense of privacy. The conversation meandered this way and that, and became quite secondary to the feeling of the girl's nearness and sympathy. Their talk drifted back to Peter's mission here in Hooker's Bend, and Cissie was saying:

“The trouble is, Peter, we are out of our milieu.” Some portion of Peter's brain that was not basking in the warmth and invitation of the girl answered quite logically:

“Yes, but if I could help these people, Cissie, reconstruct our life here culturally—”

Cissie shook her head. “Not culturally.”

This opposition shunted more of Peter's thought to the topic in hand. He paused interrogatively.

“Racially,” said Cissie.

“Racially?” repeated the man, quite lost.

Cissie nodded, looking straight into his eyes. “You know very well, Peter, that you and I are not—are not anything near full bloods. You know that racially we don't belong in—Niggertown.”

Peter never knew exactly how this extraordinary