Moreno was too polite to say he did not believe in that little fiction about her father. This derelict parent might not have had a very great love for the social institutions from which he did not derive much benefit. But from a natural dissatisfaction with his own lot to professed anarchy was a long step.
“It runs in the blood naturally, then, that I can understand. Still, it puzzles me. Women don’t think very seriously about these matters—or, at any rate, only a very few of them. And women of means are hardly likely to be keen on upsetting a world in which they are fairly comfortable, in favour of a new dispensation, the results of which are highly problematical.”
She fenced with him a little longer. “Why are you so sure I was comfortably off?” she queried.
“I think you must have forgotten what you told me. Your husband made money through the good offices of Jaques, and that money became yours. That flat in Mount Street was not run on a small income.”
She became a little agitated under his rather ruthless cross-examination and suggestions.
“The money that was left me was not enough to support me comfortably. I had to turn to other means of support.”
“You would not care to tell me what they were?” Of course he had heard rumours about that Mount Street establishment, that the host and hostess were suspiciously lucky at cards. The man, at any rate, had always suffered from a shady reputation.
She became more agitated. “Yes, it is quite simple. I have been well-paid for my services by Jaques.”
“Then it was simply money that induced you to join the brotherhood?”
“Money, combined with my natural sympathy with their objects.”