Gideon felt it himself, and was
certain that a "misery," that embracing indisposition of his race, was
creeping upon him. He had been fed well, too well; he was growing
rich, too rich; he had all the praise, all the flattery that his
enormous appetite for approval desired, and too much of it. White men
sought him out and made much of him; white women talked to him about
his career; and wherever he went, women of color--black girls, brown
girls, yellow girls--wrote him of their admiration, whispered, when he
would listen, of their passion and hero-worship. "City niggers" bowed
down before him; the high gallery was always packed with them.
Musk-scented notes scrawled upon barbaric, "high-toned" stationery
poured in upon him. Even a few white women, to his horror and
embarrassment, had written him of love, letters which he straightway
destroyed. His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud
of it. There might be "folks outer their haids," but he had the sense
to remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity,
but at last his appetite had begun to falter.
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