With his eyes fixed on a signed photograph of H.E. the Rt. Hon. Sir Reginald Widescombe, G.C.M.G., on a satinwood table in his library at Hillhouse, with his fingertips together, each of them like a miniature of his polite bald head, Mr. Eisenherz listened while Mr. William Stopple explained that by selling property to this Neil Kingsblood, a notorious Negro agitator, they had been guilty of breaking the covenant and injuring the equity of the innocent white property-holders in Sylvan Park. That they had been ignorant of the fellow’s taint was probably no excuse in law and, what was worse than any legal foot-slipping, if they didn’t do something at once, Mr. Eisenherz’s remaining unsold property in the addition might drop in value.

Had it dropped yet? worried Mr. Eisenherz.

No, not yet, but everybody knew that it would, because everybody knew that all Negroes like this fellow were unbathed and noisy, and while he, Mr. Stopple, had no prejudices, and neither had he, Mr. Eisenherz, still facts were facts. Weren’t they?

Bertie Eisenherz had been very fond of the mulatto mistress he had had for two years while he was with the legation in Portugal, and he was irritated by all this insular imbecility, but he needed the money, he always needed the money, for the maintenance of his precarious conviction that he was a great gentleman. And though he was devoted to his Renoir and his autographed set of Henry James, he was legitimately the grandson of Simon Eisenherz, the shrewdest and most resolute pilferer of Indian forest-land titles in Northern Minnesota.

And so:

Neil received from the law-firm in which Rodney Aldwick was a partner a letter bleakly asking him to call.

He went in warily to see Aldwick, who wanted to shake hands and who was altogether on the friendly and jolly side:

“Neil, personally I think this whole matter is picayune nonsense, but unfortunately, under the restrictive-covenant custom, both your neighbors and poor old Bill Stopple’s firm could sue you for having purchased your home on fraudulent pretenses, knowing all the while that you were—colored, shall we say?”

He looked at Neil brightly, as if awaiting the pleasure of having him get angry and rave that he had not “known all the while.” Neil sat bulkily still and Aldwick, a little disappointed, went on:

“Mr. Eisenherz is still willing to refund what you paid. But he is no longer just offering it; he is insisting. He demands that you hand over the place at once. After all, what is it? Just another house and lot, that’s all. If you refuse, he will take legal action, and I imagine that in the settlement, any costs that Mr. Eisenherz may be forced to undergo will be assessed against you. And they will be considerable. Eli see to that! Ha, ha. Well, my dear fellow? After all, you know!”

“It’s my house, bought legally, honestly paid for, and I stick.”

“Oh, come now, Neil, we’re both of us men of the world.”