“It was a small room, of course,” she assented, “but I had to sing somewhere, and I couldn’t hire a place.”
“Shackleton wanted to hear you, as I understand it. Mrs. Willers said something about his knowing your father.”
There was no question about the coldness of his voice now. Had Mariposa known more about men she would have seen he was irritated.
She repeated the fable of her father’s early acquaintance with Jake Shackleton, and of the latter’s desire expressed to Mrs. Willers, of hearing her sing.
“Mrs. Willers is such an ass!” he said suddenly and vindictively.
Mariposa was this time hurt for her friend and spoke up:
“I don’t see why you say that. I don’t think a woman’s an ass who can support herself and a child as she does,”—she thought of her sixteen dollars and added: “It’s very hard for a woman to make money.”
“Oh, she’s not an ass that way,” he answered. “She’s an ass to try and work Shackleton up to the point of becoming a patron of the arts—as represented by you.”
He turned on her with a slight smile, that brought no suggestion of amusement to his somewhat saturnine face.
“Isn’t that her idea?” he asked.