"Who were those people I saw you with last evening, coming from H——'s saloon?" I suddenly asked.
Phenie gave me a startled glance; her face grew pale.
"Her name," she stammered, "is Nettie Mullin."
"And the gentleman?" I asked again, with an irony which I fear was entirely thrown away.
The girl's color came back with a rush.
"His name is O'Brien, General O'Brien," she faltered. "He—he's a great man!" she added, with a pitiful little show of pride.
"Ah! Did he tell you so?" I asked.
"Nettie told me," the girl answered, simply. "She's known him a long time. He's rich and has a great deal of—of influence, and he's promised to get us promoted. He's a great friend of Nettie's, and he—he's a perfect gentleman."
She looked so innocent and confused as she sat rubbing the toe of one small boot across a figure of the carpet, that I had not the heart to question her further. In her agitation she had withdrawn the hand she had kept hitherto concealed beneath her cape, and was turning around and around the showy ring which adorned one finger.