“Nonsense,” said Witherspoon.  “Society may rule a poor man, but a rich man rules society.  Common sense always commands respect, for nearly every rule that governs the conduct of man is founded upon it.  Don’t you worry about the reception or anything else.  You are a man of the world, and to such a man society is a mere plaything.”

“Well,” replied Ellen, wrinkling her handsome brow with a frown, “I must say that you preach an odd sort of sermon.  Society is supposed to hold the culture and the breeding of a community, sir.”

“Yes, supposed to,” Witherspoon agreed.

“Oh, well, if you question it I won’t argue with you.”  And giving Henry a meaning look, she continued:  “Of course business is first.  Art drops on its worn knees and prays to business, and literature begs it for a mere nod.  Everything is the servant of business.”

“Everything in Chicago is,” the merchant replied.

“Art is the old age of trade,” said Henry.  “A vigorous nation buys and sells and fights; but a nation that is threatened with decay paints and begs.”

“Good!” Witherspoon exclaimed.  “I think you’ve hit it squarely.  Since we went to Europe, Ellen has had an idea that trade is rather low in the scale of human interest.”

“Now, father, I haven’t any such idea, and you know it, too.  But I do think that people who spend their lives in getting money can’t be as refined as those who have a higher aim.”

Witherspoon grunted.  “What do you call a higher aim?  Hanging about a picture gallery and simpering over a lot of long-haired fellows in outlandish dress, ha?  Is it refinement to worship a picture simply because you are not able to buy it?  Some people rave over art, and we buy it and hang it up at home.”

She laughed, and slipping off her chair, ran round to her father and put her arms about his neck.  “I can always stir you up, can’t I?”

“You can when you talk that way,” he answered.

“But you know I don’t mean that you aren’t refined.  Who could be more gentle than you are?  But you must let me enjoy an occasional mischief.  My mother’s people, the Craigs, were all full of mischief, and”

“Ellen,” said her mother.

Witherspoon laughed, and reaching back, pretended to pull the girl’s ears.  “Am I going down town with you?” she asked.

“No, not this morning.  I’m going to drive Henry down in the light buggy.  My boy, I’ve got as fine a span of bay horses as you ever saw.  Cost me five thousand apiece.  That’s art for you; eh, Ellen?”

“They are beautiful,” she admitted.

“Yes, and strung up with pride.  Get ready, Henry, and we’ll go.”

When Witherspoon gathered up the lines and with the whip touched one of the horses, both jumped as though startled by the same impulse.

“There’s grace for you,” said Witherspoon.  “Look how they plant their fore feet.”

Henry did not answer.  He was looking back at a palace, his home; and he, too, was touched with a whip—­the thrilling whip of pride.  It lasted but a moment.  His memory threw up a home for the friendless, and upon a background of hunger, squalor and wretchedness his fancy flashed the picture of an Italian hag, crooning and toothless.