“I am now. I didn’t use to be.”
“What were you to begin with?”
“Momma brought me from Canada after my father died. That’s why I ain’t got no friends here.”
At this appeal for sympathy his glance stole suspiciously toward her, finding his first conjectures somewhat but not altogether verified. She was young apparently, and possibly pretty, though as to neither point did he care. He would have preferred more “past,” more “mystery,” more “drama,” but since you couldn’t have everything, a young person utterly unfit to be his wife would have to be enough. He continued to draw out her story, not because he cared anything about hearing it, but in order to spring his question finally without making her think him more unbalanced than he was.
“Your father was a Canadian?”
“Yes; a farmer. Momma used to say she was about as good to work a farm as a cat to run a fire-engine. 33 When he died, she sold out for four thousand dollars and come to New York.”
“To work?”
“No, to have a good time. She’d never had a good time, momma hadn’t, and she was awful pretty. So she said she’d just blow herself to it while she had the berries in her basket. That was how she met Judson Flack. I suppose you know who he is. Everybody does.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure.”
“Oh, I don’t know as you’d find it any big pleasure. Momma didn’t, not after she’d give him a try.”