The “little woman” accepted the suggestion, and admitted that it would at least make the building look more like a hotel.

All the details settled, the two men went away, and poor Benedict had a rough time in getting back to camp.  Jim could hardly restrain himself from going through in a single day, so anxious was he to get at his traps and resume work upon the house.  There was no fatigue too great for him now.  The whole world was bright and full of promise; and he could not have been happier or more excited if he had been sure that at the year’s end a palace and a princess were to be the reward of his enterprise.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHICH INTRODUCES SEVERAL RESIDENTS OF SEVENOAKS TO THE METROPOLIS AND A NEW CHARACTER TO THE READER.

Harry Benedict was in the great city.  When his story was known by Mrs. Balfour—­a quiet, motherly woman—­and she was fully informed of her husband’s plans concerning him, she received him with a cordiality and tenderness which won his heart and made him entirely at home.  The wonders of the shops, the wonders of the streets, the wonders of the places of public amusement, the music of the churches, the inspiration of the great tides of life that swept by him on every side, were in such sharp contrast to the mean conditions to which he had been accustomed, that he could hardly sleep.  Indeed, the dreams of his unquiet slumbers were formed of less attractive constituents than the visions of his waking hours.  He had entered a new world, which stimulated his imagination, and furnished him with marvelous materials for growth.  He had been transformed by the clothing of the lad whose place he had taken into a city boy, difficult to be recognized by those who had previously known him.  He hardly knew himself, and suspected his own consciousness of cheating him.

For several days he had amused himself in his leisure hours by watching a huge house opposite to that of the Balfours, into which was pouring a stream of furniture.  Huge vans were standing in front of it, or coming and departing, from morning until night, Dressing-cases, book-cases, chairs, mirrors, candelabra, beds, tables—­everything necessary and elegant in the furniture of a palace, were unloaded and carried in.  All day long, too, he could see through the large windows the active figure and beautiful face of a woman who seemed to direct and control the movements of all who were engaged in the work.

The Balfours had noticed the same thing; but, beyond wondering who was rich or foolish enough to purchase and furnish Palgrave’s Folly, they had given the matter no attention.  They were rich, of good family, of recognized culture and social importance, and it did not seem to them that any one whom they would care to know would be willing to occupy a house so pronounced in vulgar display.  They were people whose society no money could buy.  If Robert Belcher had been worth a hundred millions instead of one, the fact would not have been taken into consideration in deciding any social question relating to him.