“If you ain’t in any great hurry,” the old man said, “I wish you’d get in here a minute.  I’d like to have a little talk with you.”

“Oh, certainly,” said March, and he thought:  “It’s coming now about what he intends to do with ‘Every Other Week.’  Well, I might as well have all the misery at once and have it over.”

Dryfoos called up to his driver, who bent his head down sidewise to listen:  “Go over there on Madison Avenue, onto that asphalt, and keep drivin’ up and down till I stop you.  I can’t hear myself think on these pavements,” he said to March.  But after they got upon the asphalt, and began smoothly rolling over it, he seemed in no haste to begin.  At last he said, “I wanted to talk with you about that—­that Dutchman that was at my dinner—­Lindau,” and March’s heart gave a jump with wonder whether he could already have heard of Lindau’s death; but in an instant he perceived that this was impossible.  “I been talkin’ with Fulkerson about him, and he says they had to take the balance of his arm off.”

March nodded; it seemed to him he could not speak.  He could not make out from the close face of the old man anything of his motive.  It was set, but set as a piece of broken mechanism is when it has lost the power to relax itself.  There was no other history in it of what the man had passed through in his son’s death.

“I don’t know,” Dryfoos resumed, looking aside at the cloth window-strap, which he kept fingering, “as you quite understood what made me the maddest.  I didn’t tell him I could talk Dutch, because I can’t keep it up with a regular German; but my father was Pennsylvany Dutch, and I could understand what he was saying to you about me.  I know I had no business to understood it, after I let him think I couldn’t but I did, and I didn’t like very well to have a man callin’ me a traitor and a tyrant at my own table.  Well, I look at it differently now, and I reckon I had better have tried to put up with it; and I would, if I could have known—­” He stopped with a quivering lip, and then went on:  “Then, again, I didn’t like his talkin’ that paternalism of his.  I always heard it was the worst kind of thing for the country; I was brought up to think the best government was the one that governs the least; and I didn’t want to hear that kind of talk from a man that was livin’ on my money.  I couldn’t bear it from him.  Or I thought I couldn’t before—­before—­” He stopped again, and gulped.  “I reckon now there ain’t anything I couldn’t bear.”  March was moved by the blunt words and the mute stare forward with which they ended.  “Mr. Dryfoos, I didn’t know that you understood Lindau’s German, or I shouldn’t have allowed him he wouldn’t have allowed himself—­to go on.  He wouldn’t have knowingly abused his position of guest to censure you, no matter how much he condemned you.”  “I don’t care for it now,” said Dryfoos.  “It’s all past and gone, as far as I’m concerned; but I wanted you to see that I wasn’t tryin’ to punish him for his opinions, as you said.”