“Why not? What do you mean? Does she belong to painter-man?”
“Oh, fie, Mat! You mustn’t talk of a young lady belonging to anybody, as if she was a piece of furniture, or money in the Three per Cents, or something of that sort. Confound it man, don’t shake me in that way! You’ll pull my arm off. Let me have my laugh, and I’ll tell you every thing.”
“Tell it then; and be quick about it.”
“Well, first of all, she is not Blyth’s daughter—though some scandal-mongering people have said she is—”
“Nor yet his wife?”
“Nor yet his wife. What a question! He adopted her, as they call it, years ago, when she was a child. But who she is, or where he picked her up, or what is her name, Blyth never has told anybody, and never will. She’s the dearest, kindest, prettiest little soul that ever lived; and that’s all I know about her. It’s a short story, old boy; but surprisingly romantic—isn’t it?”
Mat did not immediately answer. He paid the most breathless attention to the few words of information which Zack had given him—repeated them over again to himself—reflected for a moment—then said—
“Why won’t the painter-man tell any body who she is?”
“How should I know? It’s a whim of his. And, I’ll tell you what, here’s a piece of serious advice for you:—If you want to go there again, and make her acquaintance, don’t you ask Blyth who she is, or let him fancy you want to know. He’s touchy on that point—I can’t say why; but he is. Every man has a raw place about him somewhere: that’s Blyth’s raw place, and if you hit him on it, you won’t get inside of his house again in a hurry, I can tell you.”
Still, Mat’s attention fastened greedily on every word—still, his eyes fixed eagerly on his informant’s face—still, he repeated to himself what Zack was telling him.