Streeter would have to say. “Regular little United Nations back here.” Mary Jo, knowing how to handle him, would remark that there was always first class. He would say that he didn’t propose paying an arm and a leg for the privilege of swilling free champagne. “Anyway, you know what’s up in first class? Japs. Japanese businessmen on their way home from buying up some more of the country.” Mary Jo might say then that Japanese hardly seemed foreign to her anymore. She would say this thoughtfully, as if she was wondering about it, almost talking to herself. “I mean, they hardly seem like a foreign race.” “Well, you seem foreign to them, and you better not forget it.” When he had got these remarks off his chest, Dr. Streeter would not be displeased. He would settle down beside her, glad they had these front seats where there was room for his legs. A tall, bulky man, florid and white-haired, he would stand out here—a slightly clumsy but noble-headed giant—among the darker skins, the more compact and fine-boned races, in their flashy or picturesque clothes.
