Cissie laughed again. A girl's part in a witty conversation might seem
easy at first sight. She has only to laugh at the proper intervals.
However, these intervals are not always distinctly marked. Some girls
take no chances and laugh all the time.

Cissie's appreciation was the sedative Peter needed. The relief of her
laughter and her presence ran along his nerves and unkinked them, like a
draft of Kentucky Special after a debauch. The curves of her cheek, the
tilt of her head, and the lift of her dull-blue blouse at the bosom wove
a great restfulness about Peter. The brooch of old gold glinted at her
throat. The heavy screen of the arbor gave them a sweet sense of
privacy. The conversation meandered this way and that, and became quite
secondary to the feeling of the girl's nearness and sympathy. Their talk
drifted back to Peter's mission here in Hooker's Bend, and Cissie was
saying:

"The trouble is, Peter, we are out of our _milieu_." Some portion
of Peter's brain that was not basking in the warmth and invitation of
the girl answered quite logically:

"Yes, but if I could help these people, Cissie, reconstruct our life
here culturally--"

Cissie shook her head. "Not culturally."

This opposition shunted more of Peter's thought to the topic in hand. He
paused interrogatively.

"Racially," said Cissie.