Kirk had exhausted his line of argument and fell silent, but Jack Staples stepped into the breach.  Staples himself was no mean type of financier, holding as he did a commission as one of Malone’s chief lieutenants.  He was a striking man with a lower jaw which thrust itself aggressively forward and a single white lock over his forehead, though except for that the blackness of his hair bore no touch of gray even at the temples.

“I hate the lot of them!” he announced vehemently.  “I hate this upstart Cyclops and his conscienceless power.  I hate the pampered brother—­but Thayre is right.  Great God in heaven, gentlemen, it is a family of geniuses.  Stop and reflect.  Fifteen years ago they were bare-footed—­ragged—­half-starved, the whole brood.  Now consider them.  Hamilton is magnificent, ruthless, but almost omnipotent.  He is one of the world’s few blazing and dazzling figures.  As for Paul, in spite of his weakness, he’s inspirational.  His genius is no less intrinsic.  I’m not emotional, but I’ve heard them all play and that boy can carry me out of myself as can no other artist, professional or amateur, to whom I’ve ever listened.  He is a gifted troubadour.  His fingers control the magic of harmony as his brother’s control the magic of money.  For my part I’d rather be Paul than Hamilton.  Hamilton will be hated to death—­by men, but Paul will be loved to death—­by women.”

“Well,” suggested another member of the group drily, “when one New York family can move as stolid an old cynic as Staples to eulogy, it must be some family.”

“I tell you,” protested Staples hotly, “I hate them, but we gain nothing by belittling our enemies.  It sets a man’s imagination afire to see a strain of remarkable blood proclaiming itself in so diverse a fashion through members of one household; a household that has come from the pinch of want.  Take the girl.  Leave her beauty out of the question, because beauty is not genius.  But her mind is as trenchant as her brother’s.  She could reign on any throne in Europe and stand out as conspicuous in brilliant contrast to that colorless royalty as a torch flaming among candles.  I’ll wager that her courage is as unflinching as his and her gifts as varied and remarkable.  Why, even old Tom, the father, is, for all his seeming of pompous emptiness, the craftiest and cagiest old chap in the National Union Club.  He plays rotten bridge, but he still has a brain in his old head.”

“I suppose as far as that goes,” commented Mr. Kirk, fortified by the entry of a new disputant into the argument, “that even Nero had his attractive angles of personality.”

Thayre laughed and lighted a cigarette.  Then as he inhaled deeply he nodded and replied.

“I hold no brief for Nero, but I dare say he was a bit misunderstood.”

“Since you’ve undertaken the modern Nero’s defense, suppose you catalogue his good points—­aside from a conceded brilliancy in finance,” suggested another member of the group.