“I wonder,” said March, “if that’s what Burnamy calls her now?”

“I shall despise him if it isn’t.”

XXXVII.

Burnamy took up his mail to Stoller after the supper which they had eaten in a silence natural with two men who have been off on a picnic together.  He did not rise from his writing-desk when Burnamy came in, and the young man did not sit down after putting his letters before him.  He said, with an effort of forcing himself to speak at once, “I have looked through the papers, and there is something that I think you ought to see.”

“What do you mean?” said Stoller.

Burnamy laid down three or four papers opened to pages where certain articles were strongly circumscribed in ink.  The papers varied, but their editorials did not, in purport at least.  Some were grave and some were gay; one indignantly denounced; another affected an ironical bewilderment; the third simply had fun with the Hon. Jacob Stoller.  They all, however, treated his letter on the city government of Carlsbad as the praise of municipal socialism, and the paper which had fun with him gleefully congratulated the dangerous classes on the accession of the Honorable Jacob to their ranks.

Stoller read the articles, one after another, with parted lips and gathering drops of perspiration on his upper lip, while Burnamy waited on foot.  He flung the papers all down at last.  “Why, they’re a pack of fools!  They don’t know what they’re talking about!  I want city government carried on on business principles, by the people, for the people.  I don’t care what they say!  I know I’m right, and I’m going ahead on this line if it takes all—­” The note of defiance died out of his voice at the sight of Burnamy’s pale face.  “What’s the matter with you?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“Do you mean to tell me it is”—­he could not bring himself to use the word—­“what they say?”

“I suppose,” said Burnamy, with a dry mouth, “it’s what you may call municipal socialism.”

Stoller jumped from his seat.  “And you knew it when you let me do it?”

“I supposed you knew what you were about.”

“It’s a lie!” Stoller advanced upon him, wildly, and Burnamy took a step backward.

“Look out!” shouted Burnamy.  “You never asked me anything about it.  You told me what you wanted done, and I did it.  How could I believe you were such an ignoramus as not to know the a b c of the thing you were talking about?” He added, in cynical contempt, “But you needn’t worry.  You can make it right with the managers by spending a little more money than you expected to spend.”

Stoller started as if the word money reminded him of something.  “I can take care of myself, young man.  How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing!” said Burnamy, with an effort for grandeur which failed him.

The next morning as the Marches sat over their coffee at the Posthof, he came dragging himself toward them with such a haggard air that Mrs. March called, before he reached their table, “Why, Mr. Burnamy, what’s the matter?”