“In fact, years ago, I saw all of you having a grand picnic together, and I wished I were with you.”

They all widened their mouths in forbidding politeness, and Neil urged, as one who would be loved even if he had to kill them for it, “Sorry I never had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Brewster before. Uh—did you get over to the other side, Captain—Emerson?”

“I saw a little of the show there.” Reluctantly, Emerson did what was necessary. “Captain Kingsblood, this is my wife—I imagine you know her father, Drexel Greenshaw of the Fiesole Room—and our baby. My father and mother, and this young lady is my niece, Phoebe…. Mother, you’ve heard me speak of Mr. Kingsblood—we were in school together.”

The Woolcapes all looked like children who have done their politenesses to the nosey deacon and feel that they may sneak away now and be happy. But, at whatever risk of being snubbed, Neil wasn’t having it. This family had become immensely important to him. When a man is born a Negro at thirty-one, he needs a family.

He had never done much in the youthfully-beseeching line; yet, he was solicitous now with Emerson.

“Which way you going, Captain? I don’t know this part of town very well.”

It was not Emerson but his mother who rose to a hearty, “Oh, wouldn’t you like to walk along with us, Captain?”

John and Mary Woolcape lived a block from the church, with Emerson next door. As they trudged, John pointed out the dwarf parsonage of Evan Brewster, and tried, “Did you enjoy the sermon, Captain Kingsblood? We think quite highly of Dr. Brewster.”

The Woolcapes were surprised by the ardor with which this white banker—probably down here on some regrettable piece of financial spying—answered, “Seriously, I thought he had a remarkable combination of power and gentleness. A saint—but smart!”

“He’s too good a bowler and much too good a cook to be classed as a saint, but we’re very fond of Dr. Brewster,” said Mrs. Woolcape, and Neil felt that she was faintly laughing at him and his status of amateur critic. But he would not be smiled down. He studied the parsonage, shabby white, one-story, three or four small rooms, the whole thing not much larger than his own modest living-room. There were prim curtained windows, and on the pocket-handkerchief porch were three jars of geraniums.

“Rather small house for a man as big as he is. And I suppose he’s married?”

“Yes, and two children. Dr. Brewster says they manage by sleeping on top of the cook-stove and keeping the bathtub and the cat underneath it, and his library—both books!” said Mr. Woolcape.

His wife rose to it. “Now John, you know perfectly well that Evan has a splendid library for a man on his salary—hundreds of books—all the important new ones—Myrdal and Wright and Langston Hughes and Alain Locke and everything!”

They laughed at her like a family who love one another.

Neil found some more conversation to offer: “Small church—don’t suppose you can possibly pay him a high salary. Seems a shame.”