“You don’t believe for one instant that Miss Walters was really married to old Krutzmacht?” Hollinger shrugged his shoulders.
“Quien sabe? as the Mexicans say. I have no doubt she ought to have been.”
“That is a very different matter.”
Hollinger again shrugged his shoulders. In the pause that followed, Hollinger began to muse aloud softly, as if he were presenting a case to himself:
“Her life has been typical. Born on a dreary little ranch, educated for a few years in one of our national institutions for the stultifying of youth, then deserted by her worthless father and forced to do something for herself and her useless mother,—what is the answer to that? Chorus girl. Twelve dollars a week and mother to support as well as herself and no special talent or exceptional looks,—what is the answer to that? Man.”
“Whom the girl in her gratitude tried to sell out when he was in a tight place. No, I am afraid you can’t make out a very good case for charity!”
“Just what had Krutzmacht done for her? . . . Changed her job from a dubiously respectable one to an undoubtedly disreputable one—and made her work in his office besides. No, the balance is on her side of the ledger. . . . Now she has matured,—oh, very much matured; has no protector, and mother still to support as well as herself,—what is the answer to that?”
“If you put your claim on the ground of social service, pure and simple,” Brainard replied, “it might be considered, I suppose. But I don’t think Miss Walters would accept charity.”
“Charity—justice—prudence? What’s the use of finding the right name? In the last analysis they are all meaningless.”
“You forget they mean something to me.”