VI.
A couple of days after this, during which Pemberton had delayed to profit by Mrs. Moreen's permission to tell her son any horror, the two had been for a quarter of an hour walking together in silence when the boy became sociable again with the remark: "I'll tell you how I know it; I know it through Zénobie."
"Zénobie? Who in the world is she?"
"A nurse I used to have—ever so many years ago. A charming woman. I liked her awfully, and she liked me."
"There's no accounting for tastes. What is it you know through her?"
"Why, what their idea is. She went away because they didn't pay her. She did like me awfully, and she stayed two years. She told me all about it—that at last she could never get her wages. As soon as they saw how much she liked me they stopped giving her anything. They thought she'd stay for nothing, out of devotion. And she did stay ever so long—as long as she could. She was only a poor girl. She used to send money to her mother. At last she couldn't afford it any longer, and she went away in a fearful rage one night—I mean of course in a rage against them. She cried over me tremendously, she hugged me nearly to death. She told me all about it," Morgan repeated. "She told me it was their idea. So I guessed, ever so long ago, that they have had the same idea with you."
"Zénobie was very shrewd," said Pemberton. "And she made you so."
"Oh, that wasn't Zénobie; that was nature. And experience!" Morgan laughed.
"Well, Zénobie was a part of your experience."
