It was the fashion when I was a youth for novelists to sneer at businessmen and proclaim that the conduct of industry was a simple affair, such as any halfwit could attend to with but a portion of his mind. I wish these cynics could have come to know the delicate workings and balances of my intricate empire. We in responsible positions, and myself most of all, were on a constant alert, ready for instant decision or personal attention to a mass of new detail at any moment. _72._ On one of the occasions when I had to fly to Copenhagen it was Winifred and not General Thario who met me at the airport. "General T is so upset," she explained in her vivacious way, "that I had to come instead. But perhaps I should have sent Pauline?" I assured her I was pleased to see her and hastened to express concern for her father. "Oh, it's not him at all, really," she said. "It's Mama. She's all bothered about Joe." I lowered my voice respectfully and said I was sure Mrs Thario was overcome with grief and perhaps I had better not intrude at such a time. "Poo!" dissented Winifred. "Mama doesnt know what grief is. She's simply delighted at Joe's doing a Custer, but she's awfully bothered about his music." "In what way?" I asked. "Do you mean getting it performed?" "Getting it performed, nothing. Getting it suppressed. That a long line of generals and admirals should wind up in a composer is to her a disgrace which will need a great deal of living down. It preys on her mind. Poor old Stuart is home now reading her choice passages from the _Winning of the West_ by Theodore Roosevelt to soothe her nerves." I had been more than a little apprehensive of meeting Mama again, but Winifred's report seemed to reassure me that she would be confined, if not to bed, at least to her own apartments. I was sadly disillusioned to find her ensconced in a comfortable armchair beside a brightly burning fire, the general with a book held open by his thumb. He greeted me with his usual affection. "Albert, I'm sorry I wasnt able to get to the airport." I shook his hand and turned to his wife. "I regret to hear you are indisposed, Mrs Thario." "Spare me your damned crocodile tears. Where is my son?" "In his last letter he suggested he would remain in our country as long as it existed; however it is possible--even probable he escaped. Let us hope so, Mrs Thario." "That's the sort of damned hogwash you feed to green troops, not to veterans. My son is dead. In action. My grandfather went the same way at Chancellorsville. Do you think me some whimpering broompusher to weep at the loss of a son on the battlefield?" Stuart Thario put his hand on her arm. "Easy ... bloodpressure ... no excitement." "Not in regimentals," said Mama, and relapsed into silence.