The long afternoon wore away, and, just as the sun was setting, Mrs. Belcher was called from the drawing-room by some family care, leaving Mr. Belcher and Mrs. Dillingham together.

“Don’t be gone long,” said the latter to Mrs. Belcher, as she left the room.

“Be gone till to-morrow morning,” said Mr. Belcher, in a whisper at Mrs. Dillingham’s ear.

“You’re a wretch,” said the lady.

“You’re right—­a very miserable wretch.  Here you’ve been playing the devil with a hundred men all day, and I’ve been looking at you.  Is there any article of your apparel that I can have the privilege of kissing?”

Mrs. Dillingham laughed him in his face.  Then she took a wilted rose-bud from a nosegay at her breast, and gave it to him.

“My roses are all faded,” she said—­“worth nothing to me—­worth nothing to anybody—­except you.”

Then she passed to the window; to hide her emotion? to hide her duplicity? to change the subject? to give Mr. Belcher a glance at her gracefully retreating figure? to show herself, framed by the window, into a picture for the delight of his devouring eyes?

Mr. Belcher followed her.  His hand lightly touched her waist, and she struck it down, as if her own were the velvet paw of a lynx.

“You startled me so!” she said.

“Are you always to be startled so easily?”

“Here? yes.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yes.  Perhaps so.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the perhaps.”

“You are easily pleased and grateful for nothing; and, now, tell me who lives opposite to you?”

“A lawyer by the name of James Balfour.”

“James Balfour?  Why, he’s one of my old flames.  He ought to have been here to-day.  Perhaps he’ll be in this evening.”

“Not he.”

“Why?”

“He has the honor to be an enemy of mine, and knows that I would rather choke him than eat my dinner.”

“You men are such savages; but aren’t those nice boys on the steps?”

“I happen to know one of them, and I should like to know why he is there, and how he came there.  Between you and me, now—­strictly between you and me—­that boy is the only person that stands between me and—­and—­a pile of money.”

“Is it possible?  Which one, now?”

“The larger.”

“But, isn’t he lovely?”

“He’s a Sevenoaks pauper.”

“You astonish me.”

“I tell you the truth, and Balfour has managed, in some way, to get hold of him, and means to make money out of me by it.  I know men.  You can’t tell me anything about men; and my excellent neighbor will have his hands full, whenever he sees fit to undertake his job.”

“Tell me all about it now,” said Mrs. Dillingham, her eyes alight with genuine interest.

“Not now, but I’ll tell you what I would like to have you do.  You have a way of making boys love you, and men too—­for that matter—­and precious little do they get for it.”