“I said, ‘Joyce, don’t render me liable to commit bigamy.’

“Whereupon, she stuck her hands on her hips and yelled, ‘Bigamy? Every time I mention marriage to you, bigamy is the first thing that jumps into your mind. I’m warning you, Jess Semple, for the last time, if you don’t hurry up and think of something more respectable to commit besides bigamy, you’re going to see mighty little of me. I have never known any one Negro so long without having some kind of action out of him.’

“I said, ‘Baby, you talk like you have been married before.’

“Joyce said, ‘No, I have not been married before. But I have been proposed to. You have not even yet, in going on several years, formally proposed to me, let alone writing my father for my hand.’

“I said, ‘I did not know I had to write your father for your hand. This is the first time you mentioned that, honey. I thought this here living-together business, when it does come off, would be just between us.’

“She says, ‘I do not like that living-together phrase, Jess Semple. We will be legally married as soon as you get legally divorced—and there will be no living together to it. Also, you will write my father.’

“‘Joyce, you know I cannot write good,’ I said.

“‘Then I can dictate for you, and tell you what to say.’

“I said, ‘I know what to say. But I still do not understand how a girl as big and old as you are has to have somebody ask her father if she can get married.’

“‘Marriage involves changing my name to your name, that is why,’ says Joyce. ‘Since I bear my father’s name—although he is only my step-father—you have to ask him can you change it. Then I will cease to be Miss Lane and become Mrs. Semple—as soon as that woman in Baltimore lets loose of your name. Do you reckon she will ever do so?’

“‘The wheels of justice grind slow. But, Joyce, you know I mean well. I would have taken your hand long ago, had it not been for bigamy.’

“‘I thought your first wife’s name was Isabel, not Bigamy.’

“‘Don’t be funny,’ I says. ‘You know what I mean. I do not want to get in jail and leave you in disgrace. I love you, woman! I want all to be well with us, also between us. I will even write your old man tomorrow, if you say so.’

“‘My father,’ says Joyce, ‘not my old man. I never did like crude-talking people. I bet no child of mine better not call you old man, nor me old lady. Any child of mine will be brought up after me, not after you.’

“‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘One thing, Joyce, for which I admires you is your culture. Was your old man cultured? I mean, your father?’