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."