Jefferson needs a word of comment. Although born and bred a slave, he is
the product of a newer and higher civilization. There is hardly a trace of
the old South left in him,--hardly a mark of the pit of slavery from which
he was digged. His speech is as faultless as his dress. He is clean,
close-shaven, immaculate, well-groomed, silent,--reminding me always of a
mahogany-colored Greek professor, even to his eye-glasses. He keeps his
rooms in admirable order, and his household accounts with absolute
accuracy; never spilled a drop of claret, mixed a warm cocktail, or served
a cold plate in his life; is devoted to Hardy, and so punctiliously polite
to his master's friends and guests that it is a pleasure to have him serve
you.

Strange to say, this punctilious politeness had never extended to the
major, and since an occurrence connected with this very bag, to be related
shortly, it had ceased altogether. Whether it was that Jefferson had
always seen through the peculiar varnish that made bright the major's
veneer, or whether in an unguarded moment, on a previous visit, the major
gave way to some such outburst as he would have inflicted upon the
domestics of his own establishment, forgetting for the time the superior
position to which Jefferson's breeding and education entitled him, I
cannot say, but certain it is that while to all outward appearances
Jefferson served the major with every indication of attention and
humility, I could see under it all a quiet reserve which marked the line
of unqualified disapproval. This was evident even in the way he carried
the major's bag,--holding it out by the straps, not as became the handling
of a receptacle containing a gentleman's wardrobe, but by the neck, so to
speak,--as a dog to be dropped in the gutter.

It was this bag, or rather its contents, or to be more exact its lack of
contents, that dulled the fine edge of Jefferson's politeness. He unpacked