He got away, not through fear, but because she pushed him. He didn't
mind that, though the rejection hurt him inside. He stood in the middle
of the floor, pity in his young countenance, wondering what he could do
for her, when she spoke again.
"I've got hardly any money left. I don't know what to do."
It was the first time his attention had been called to finance. He knew
there was such a thing as money; he knew it had purchasing value; but
he had not known its relation to himself.
"Why don't you get money where you got it before?"
"Because I ain't got a husband to die and leave me another five
thousand dollars of insurance."
"And did you have, mudda?"
"Of course I had. What did you think?"
The question voiced his inner difficulty. He had not known what to
think. Having observed that a fundamental social unit was formed of
husbands and wives, he had also understood that husbands and wives
could, in the terms which were the last to hang over from the lingo
of his babyhood, be translated into faddas and muddas. They in turn
implied children. The methods were mysterious, but the unit was so
composed. The exception to this rule seemed to be himself. Though he
had a mudda, he could not remember ever to have heard of a fadda. He
had pondered on this deficiency more times than anyone suspected. The
effort to link himself up with the human family was far more important
to him now than the ways and means of getting cash. Standing pensive,
he peered into the blinding light, or the unfathomable darkness,
whichever it may be, out of which comes human life.
"Mudda, did Gracie have a fadda?"
She snapped peevishly, her gaze again turned outward to the stone wall.
"Of course she did."