"Only what she squeezes out of dad. She gets a lot. I don't know how much he gives her. She just bleeds him," she cried, angrily. "Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, YOU know dad. You know what a darling he is! I get so mad at her I could just kill her, the way she treats him. You wouldn't believe it. Didn't you ever read 'King Lear'? Didn't you read Père Goriot? You wouldn't think there were such men in the world. But dad's just like them. He's worse. Look how he lives. He was rich when I was a little girl; he had a great business exporting flour. My grandfather had had it, and it went bust after the war. He hadn't a cent. And now look at him starting all over, knocking around from town to town, buying grain and elevators, in these filthy hotels. He never has one comfort! He never spends one cent on himself. He keeps that house—an asylum it is, for grandma. He keeps me, but I don't spend a lot of money. I'm going to work the very minute I get out of school. SHE spends it all; she comes home with a new lie whenever she's hard up. He brought her up to have a lot of money, he says. He's sorry for her. She hadn't a mother and she didn't get started right, he says. She divorced her first husband."
"She did, did she!" Bob cried.
"Yes. Of course, dad took her part in that, too. I don't know the truth of it; I was a little girl!"
"Eve," said Emily, hesitating, "I wish—you'd tell us what happened—how this happened before, if you don't mind."
"Oh, I don't mind. It was after the war. We didn't have any home at all. I was in a boarding school, and my aunt asked me there for the vacation summer. She wasn't my own aunt; she was the wife of my mother's brother. Oh, they had the loveliest house, and all just full of fun; and they were so gentle and so kind—just like you, Mrs. Kenworthy. My cousins were all grown up, and they were just lovely to me. And then my sister turned up, for a week or two, with HIM. And of course she couldn't stand one of the girls even looking at her precious pig. And there was one of those girls, the one I liked best of all, of course. And she—sort of named her—just like this, so she wouldn't get into trouble—-didn't mention her name. And of course dad came and denied it—but what good did that do? All of them were furious, naturally. It's a little old town of Friends. It wasn't my fault. I've never been invited back since. People like me when they don't know my sister. But I can't get away from her any place. This'll be all over school. It'll get back to that town. I know the girls from there at college. I tell you honestly—poor dad'll feel just sick about this. And the next time she turns up with a hard-luck story he'll take it all in again. He bought them a house—a good one—because she hadn't any home—in Philadelphia. And she sold it—and went to Paris. He told me they wouldn't be here this summer, if I came out to him. He's so sentimental. He just begins talking about mother when I try to get him to kick them out I'm never going to speak to her again, or stay one night in the same house with her. You mark my words, he'll have to choose between having her or me."
"Don't you worry, Eve. Nobody's going to blame you for anything." Bob spoke kindly because her sincere little tribute to Emily had, of course, touched him. "I'll see your father about this. What time will he be here?"
"Oh, you don't need to see him. He'll do it himself. I know he will. We'll come down and see you about it. Don't say anything to hurt his feelings, will you, Mr. Kenworthy? Because it isn't his fault. He's a good, good man. I mean—he'll feel worse about this than anyone"——she looked at Emily—and added, "almost."
After she had gone, Emily roused herself.
"It doesn't seem as if that could be true, does it, Bob? How would a woman DARE to do a thing like that? She might get into trouble—sued."
"She didn't use anybody's name. If Martha hadn't—been running around with that man, this couldn't have hurt her."