They talked part of the time in Italian, of which Lanny understood only a little; perhaps they thought he didn't understand any. He gathered that they knew the same persons, and talked about what these were doing. They discussed international affairs, and the diplomats and statesmen, of whom they thought badly — but so did most people in France, the boy had observed. He knew the names of many politicians, but was hazy about parties and doctrines.
His eyes roamed over the room. It was small, the furniture scanty and plain. There was a single bed, or perhaps it was just a cot, with a couple of worn blankets on it; a chest of drawers; a table with odds and ends piled on it, mostly papers and pamphlets; a lot of books on a trunk — apparently no other place for them; a curtain covering one corner, presumably with clothes behind it. This was how you lived in a slum!
Lanny found himself watching the woman again. He had never seen so much grief in a face. To him suffering was a theme for art, so he found himself remembering Christian martyrs as painted by the Italian primitives; he kept trying to recall one of the saints of Cimabue. The woman's voice was soft and her manner gentle, and he decided that she was truly a saint; yes, she lived in this terrible place out of pity for the poor, and must be an even more wonderful person than Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch.
When they went out Lanny hoped that Uncle Jesse would tell him about her; but the painter was an unsatisfying sort of companion. All he said was: “Well, you've seen a slum.”
“Yes, Uncle Jesse,” replied the boy humbly. Presently he added: “Don't you think we ought to take her some food, or something?”
“It wouldn't do any good. She'd just give it away.”
The man appeared to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, and Lanny hesitated to disturb him. But finally he asked: “Uncle Jesse, why do there have to be poor people like those?”
The other replied at once: “Because there are rich people like us.” That was confusing to the boy, who had always been led to believe that it was the rich people who gave the poor people work; he knew of cases in which they had done it out of kindness, because they were sorry for the poor.
Lanny tried again. “Why doesn't somebody clean up places like that?”
“Because somebody is making money out of them.”