“They make the yesterdays into a whip of many lashes to urge to-day on to still greater speed,” Gorham once explained.  “They change the president of the Consolidated Companies from an absentee employer into an ubiquitous superintendent.”

Because of Mr. Gorham’s desire for retirement, the butler endeavored to explain the impossibility of an interview to a tall, smooth-faced young man who presented his card one afternoon.  The caller’s slight figure was clad in a black whip-cord suit, and over his arm was thrown a neatly folded tan overcoat.  His silk hat carried a broad mourning band, and his hands were encased in black kid gloves.  Gorham’s would-be visitor did not present the most cheerful appearance, but the insistence with which he emphasized the important nature of his business succeeded in effecting his entrance to the hallway, where he was left until the butler could fortify himself behind the faithful Riley’s invaluable advice.

Riley looked at the printed visiting-card, gave a violent start, and then quickly closed his hand over it.  A penetrating glance disclosed the fact that the name had conveyed no special information to his companion, so he hastily assumed the responsibility of handling the situation, and hurried to the hall.  Giving the visitor no opportunity to speak, Riley placed his hand gently upon his arm, and addressed him beseechingly.

“Jimmie, me la-ad,” the old man said, “is it raly yersel’ come ter see ye’er ol’ fa-ather?  I can’t belave it, indade I can’t; but ’tain’t this we must be talkin’ about now.  I know it’s th’ great man ye are, but ye wuddent queer ye’er fa-ather by comin’ ter th’ front dure, wud ye?  Come now, Misther Robert ain’t heard about it yit, so it’s all right, Jimmie—­we’ll go down-stairs an’ have a nice little visit.  It’s proud I am ter have ye call on me, but ye mustn’t come ter th’ front dure, Jimmie—­ye mustn’t do that.”

Riley’s anxiety to get his son down-stairs and into his own domain blinded him to the straightness of Jimmie’s back and the severe lines in his face.  With all the dignity at his command the visitor assumed a position which perhaps he had learned during his career as an orator: 

“You are my father, and an old man,” he replied, with rare condescension, “so I will be gentle with you.  I didn’t call to sec you, Mr. Riley—­I have important business with Mr. Gorham.”

Riley drew back, indecision mingled with a father’s pride that a son of his could carry himself with such an air.

“That’s phwat brought ye here, is it?—­business wid Misther Robert—­ye!” he repeated.  “Ah, Jimmie, I can’t belave it, me la-ad.  Are ye shure?”

“Is it his father who doubts the word of James Riley?” the younger man replied, and Riley thought he discerned a touch of sorrow in the unnatural tone of voice.

“But Misther Robert ain’t doin’ no business these days, Jimmie.  It’s th’ vacation he’s havin’.”