“No, I hadn’t best. I ain’t a-goin’ to budge a blessed step out o’ this here room tell I know what ails you. Not if I have to stay here tell daylight.” After a brief reflection she added—“Now, don’t you tell me he’s been cuttin’ up any! I always said he was a fine young man, an’ I say so still.”
“He ain’t been cuttin’ up any,” said Zarelda. “At least, not as I know of.”
She laid down the brush and pushing her hair all back with both hands, fronted her mother suddenly, pale but resolute.
“If you want to know so bad,” she said, “I’ll tell you. He’s threw off on me.”
Mrs. Winser sunk helplessly into a chair. “Threw off on you!” she gasped.
“Yes, threw off on me.” Zarelda kept her dry, burning eyes on her mother’s face. “D’ you feel any better for makin’ me tell it?”
Certainly her revenge for the persecution was all that heart could desire. Her mother sat limp and motionless, save for the slow, mechanical sliding back and forth of one thumb on the arm of her chair.
After a while Zarelda resumed the hair-brushing, calmly. Then her mother revived.
“Who—who in the name of all that’s merciful has he took up with now?” she asked, weakly.
“Em Brackett.”