Madame Beattie was in bed, where she usually was when not in mischief, the summer breeze touching her toupée as tenderly as it might a young girl's flossy crown. She always had a cool drink by her, and she was always reading. Sometimes she put out her little ringed hand and moved the glass to hear the clink of ice, and she did it now as Lydia came in. Lydia liked the clink. It sounded festive to her. That was the word she had for all the irresponsible exuberance Madame Beattie presented her with, of boundless areas where you could be gay. Madame Beattie shut her book and motioned to the door. But Lydia was already closing it. That was the first thing when they had their gossips. Lydia came then and perched on the foot of the bed. Her promotion from chair to bed marked the progress of their intimacy. "Madame Beattie," said she, "I wish you and I could go abroad together." Madame Beattie grinned at her, with a perfect appreciation. "You wouldn't like it," said she. "I should like it," said Lydia. Yet she knew she did not want to go abroad. This was only an expression of her pleasure in sitting on a bed and chatting with a game old lady. What she wanted was to mull along here in Addington with occasional side dashes into the realms of discontent, and plan for Jeff's well-being. "He wants to give lectures," said she. "To them." The foreign contingent was always known to her and Madame Beattie as They. "The fool!" said Madame Beattie cheerfully. "What for?" "To teach them to be good." "What does he want to muddle with that for?" "Why, Madame Beattie, you know yourself you're talking to them and telling them things." "But that isn't dressing 'em in Governor Winthrop's knee breeches," said Madame Beattie, "and making Puritans of 'em. I'm just filling 'em up with Jeff Blake, so they'll follow him and make a ringleader of him whether he wants it or not. They'll push and push and not see they're pushing, and before he knows it he'll be down stage, with all his war-paint on. You never saw Jeff catch fire." "No," said Lydia, lying. The day he took her hands and told her what she still believed at moments--he had caught fire then. "When he catches fire, he'll burn up whatever's at hand," said the old lady, with relish. "Get his blood started, throw him into politics, and in a minute we shall have him in business, and playing the old game." "Do you want him to play the old game?" asked Lydia. "I want him to make some money." "To pay his creditors." "Pay your grandmother! pay for my necklace. Lydia, I've scared her out of her boots." "Esther?" Lydia whispered. Madame Beattie whispered, too, now, and a cross-light played over her eyes. "Yes. I've searched her room. And she knows it. She thinks I'm searching for the necklace." "And aren't you?"