SON OF THE WIND
turned on her—the look that had got him so much of what he wanted—took away from the impertinence of curiosity. Indeed, he was more than curious; he was interested, attracted by the unusualness of the three people, struck by their singular surrounding. To himself, if he had thought of himself at that moment, he would have appeared the idlest of idlers, the most disinterested of acquaintances; but, for a fact, he was never disinterested. He had the imagination that works only toward an object. With a faculty he was not aware of he utilized everything. He was utilizing now, unintentionally, utilizing this girl, to draw out of her details of character, of opinion, of history, among the people in the small scenario around him—the actors among whom he expected to play a part.
She was a clear well to draw from, but over his last question she took time.
"I mean," he explained himself, "what would you decide about it?"
"I? Oh, I don't know. I suppose it would be hard to know all the time that you were cheating people; but the way the thing is now is rather hard on mother."
"Doesn't she—isn't it—" He was afraid he was going too far, but the idea of any one in financial straits, above all these two women, disturbed him
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