put a question.

"Moses, what is your other name? I've never heard it, have I?"

The darkey smiled. "I reckon not, sir. 'Most everybody calls me Colonel
Wallifarro's Mose."

The guest reflectively sipped his julep. Moses had always interested him
by virtue of his decorous address, which escaped the usual negro
pomposity as entirely as his speech escaped the negro dialect. Moses was
endowed, not with manners but with a manner--to himself, McCalloway had
almost said "the grand manner." It was as if his life, close to fine and
sincere things, had made him, despite his blackness of skin, also a
gentleman.

"But you have a surname, I dare say."

"Yes, sir. Wallver."

"The same as the Colonel's?"

The butler smiled with an infectious good humour and bowed his head.

"Yes, sir. In slave times we servants took our names from our masters. I
reckon my parents did like the rest. But the coloured people spell it
the shortest way."

"I see. And you have always been in his service?"

"Whenever he kept house, sir. When Mrs. Wallifarro died and Mr. Morgan
was at boarding school, the Colonel lived at the Club. I was assistant
steward there during that time, sir."

"Ah, that accounts for a number of things," hazarded the guest with a
smile. "For your _ex cathedra_ knowledge of serving wines, for example."

"No, sir, I hardly think so." There was a respectful trace of negation
and hauteur in the disclaimer. "I learned in the Colonel's house. That
was why they wanted me at the Club."

"Of course; I beg your pardon."

When the coloured man had withdrawn, the smile lingered on the weathered
face of the soldier, drawing pleasing little wrinkles about his eyes.
Here indeed was that traditional and charming flavour of ingredients
which the South has given to the diverse table of the nation.

Colonel Wallifarro was a gentleman in whom the definition of aristocracy
found justification; the negro, a survivor of that form of slavery in
which the master held his chattel, was a human soul in trust--they were
Wallifarros white and black!

Then McCalloway's eyes fell on Boone as he greeted Anne, and a new
thought flashed into his mind.

"Wallifarro--Wallver--Wellver," he exclaimed to himself under his
breath. "Boone said his old grandfather spoke of his people being lords
and ladies once!"

His mind, tempted into a speculative train of ideas, began weaving a
pattern of genealogical surmise--a pattern involving not only the
bloo