Grant uttered an amused little laugh.
“I was afraid you would say that,” he answered. “You see, you don’t understand me, either. I don’t want to make money. Can you understand that?”
“Don’t want to make money? Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, everybody does. Money is power—it is a mark of success. It would open up a wider life for you. It would bring you into new circles. Some day you will want to marry and settle down, and money would enable you to meet the kind of women—”
She stopped, confused. She had plunged farther than she had intended.
“You’re all wrong,” he said amusedly. It did not even occur to Zen that he was contradicting her. She had not been accustomed to being contradicted, but then, neither had she been accustomed to men like Dennison Grant, nor to conversations such as had developed. She was too interested to be annoyed.
“You’re all wrong, Miss—?”
“I don’t wonder that you can’t fill in my name,” she said. “Nobody knows Dad except as Y.D. But I heard you call me Zen—”
“That was when you were coming out of your unconsciousness. I apologize for the liberty taken. I thought it might recall you—”