“There is no accounting for tastes!” Mr. Belcher responded, with a laugh that had a spice of scorn and vexation in it.

“Now, General, what do you care for that boy?  If you are a friend to me, you ought to be glad that he interests me.”

“I don’t like the man who has him in charge.  I believe Balfour is a villain.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the lady.  “He never has the courtesy to darken my door.  I once saw something of him.  He is like all the rest, I suppose; he is tired of me.”

Mrs. Dillingham had played her part perfectly, and the man before her was a blind believer in her loyalty to him.

“Let the boy go, and Balfour too,” said the General.  “They are not pleasant topics to me, and your whim will wear out.  When is the boy coming back?”

“He is to be away all summer, I believe.”

“Good!”

Mrs. Dillingham laughed.

“Why, I am glad of it, if you are,” she said.

Mr. Belcher drew a little book from his pocket.

“What have you there?” the lady inquired.

“Women have great curiosity,” said Mr. Belcher, slapping his knee with the little volume.

“And men delight to excite it,” she responded.

“The General is a business man, and you want to know how he does it,” said he.

“I do, upon my word,” responded the lady.

“Very well, the General has two kinds of business, and he never mixes one with the other.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you know he’s a manufacturer—­got his start in that way.  So he keeps that business by itself, and when he operates in Wall street, he operates outside of it.  He never risks a dollar that he makes in his regular business in any outside operation.”

“And you have it all in the little book?”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, you shall, when I’ve told you all about it.  I suppose that it must have been ten years ago that a man came to Sevenoaks who was full of all sorts of inventions.  I tried some of them, and they worked well; so I went on furnishing money to him, and, at last, I furnished so much that he passed all his rights into my hands—­sold everything to me.  He got into trouble, and lost his head—­went into an insane hospital, where I supported him for more than two years.  Then he was sent back as incurable, and, of course, had to go to the poor house.  I couldn’t support him always, you know.  I’d paid him fairly, run all the risk, and felt that my hands were clean.”

“He had sold everything to you, hadn’t he?” inquired Mrs. Dillingham, sympathetically.

“Certainly, I have the contract, legally drawn, signed, and delivered.”

“People couldn’t blame you, of course.”

“But they did.”

“How could they, if you paid him all that belonged to him?”

“That’s Sevenoaks.  That’s the thing that drove me away.  Benedict escaped, and they all supposed he was dead, and fancied that because I had made money out of him, I was responsible for him in some way.  But I punished them.  They’ll remember me.”