"I never work when I can rest," said the Watermelon truthfully.
"That's right, that's right," agreed the general, torn between a desire to talk to the phenomenal young financier, who in one night had set New York all agog, and to avoid a smash-up with the stone walls on either side of the road. "Men are altogether too eager to make money."
"Yes," said Henrietta. "Everything nowadays is money, money, money." Then remembering who her guest was, she added quickly, "I think it is splendid in your getting away from it all and spending one day a week in the country, close to nature. They say that stock-brokers are never happy away from the Street."
"But I am not a stock-broker," explained the Watermelon, with his candid, boyish smile. "I'm a lamb."
Henrietta laughed. "But not fleeced," said she gaily.
"Not yet," admitted the Watermelon, wondering if William Hargrave Batchelor was still enjoying his swim.
"What you want to do, now that you have made your 'pile,'" advised the general, as the machine swerved dangerously near a tree, "is to leave the Street at once. Invest your money in U.S. government bonds and buy a place in the country."
"You don't like the country yourself, father, except in the summer," objected Henrietta.
"That's all right, my dear, but when a man has three millions invested in government bonds, he does not have to spend all of his life in the country. Your last deal brought you three millions, I believe the papers said?" Never before had the general discussed a friend's private affairs with such sylvan frankness and interest, with such complete unconsciousness of his own rudeness, but the youth who had risen one night from the obscurity of New York's multitude to a position of importance in the greatest money market in the world appeared to the general in the light of a public character, and as he would have discussed aviation with the Wright brothers, the North Pole with Peary, so now he discussed money with the Watermelon.
"Three, ten," chuckled the Watermelon.