“Candid and complimentary,” she sighed.

“Well, I’ve seen you manage with my boys, and I would like to have you try it with him.  Meet him in the street, manage to speak to him, get him into your house, make him love you.  You can do it.  You are bold enough, ingenious enough, and subtle enough to do anything of that kind you will undertake.  Some time, if you have him under your influence, you may be of use to me.  Some time, he may be glad to hide in your house.  No harm can come to you in making his acquaintance.”

“Do you know that you are talking very strangely to me?”

“No.  I’m talking business.  Is that a strange thing to a woman?”

Mrs. Dillingham made no reply, but stood and watched the boys, as they ran up and down the steps in play, with a smile of sympathy upon her face, and genuine admiration of the graceful motions and handsome face and figure of the lad of whom Mr. Belcher had been talking.  Her curiosity was piqued, her love of intrigue was appealed to, and she determined to do, at the first convenient opportunity, what Mr. Belcher desired her to do.

Then Mrs. Belcher returned, and the evening, like the afternoon, was devoted to the reception of guests, and when, at last, the clock struck eleven, and Mrs. Dillingham stood bonneted and shawled ready to go home in the carriage that waited at the door, Mrs. Belcher kissed her, while Mr. Belcher looked on in triumph.

“Now, Sarah, haven’t we had a nice day?” said he.

“Very pleasant, indeed.”

“And haven’t I behaved well?  Upon my word, I believe I shall have to stand treat to my own abstinence, before I go to bed.”

“Yes, you’ve been wonderfully good,” remarked his wife.

“Men are such angels!” said Mrs. Dillingham.

Then Mr. Belcher put on his hat and overcoat, led Mrs. Dillingham to her carriage, got in after her, slammed the door, and drove away.

No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Dillingham went to talking about the little boy, in the most furious manner.  Poor Mr. Belcher could not divert her, could not induce her to change the subject, could not get in a word edgewise, could not put forward a single apology for the kiss he intended to win, did not win his kiss at all.  The little journey was ended, the carriage door thrown open by her own hand, and she was out without his help.

“Good-night; don’t get out,” and she flew up the steps and rang the bell.

Mr. Belcher ordered the coachman to drive him home, and then sank back on his seat, and crowding his lips together, and compressing his disappointment into his familiar expletive, he rode back to his house as rigid in every muscle as if he had been frozen.

“Is there any such thing as a virtuous devil, I wonder,” he muttered to himself, as he mounted his steps.  “I doubt it; I doubt it.”