His head was large, he wore his hair short, his features also proclaimed him as belonging to a modern American type in that they were not clear-cut, but rather indefinable; a bristling, short-cropped moustache gave him a certain efficient, military look which, when introduced to strangers as “Colonel,” was apt to deceive them into thinking him an army officer.  The title he had once received as a member of the staff of the governor of the state, and was a tribute to a gregariousness and political influence rather than to a genius for the art of war.  Ex officio, as the agent of the Chippering Mill and a man of substance to boot, he was “in” politics, hail fellow well met with and an individual to be taken into account by politicians from the governor and member of congress down.  He was efficient, of course; he had efficient hands and shrewd, efficient eyes, and the military impression was deepened by his manner of dealing with people, his conversation being yea, yea and nay, nay,—­save with his cronies and those of the other sex from whom he had something to gain.  His clothes always looked new, of pronounced patterns and light colours set aside for him by an obsequious tailor in Boston.

If a human being in such an enviable position as that of agent of the Chippering Mill can be regarded as property, it might be said that Mr. Claude Ditmar belonged to the Chipperings of Boston, a family still owning a controlling interest in the company.  His loyalty to them and to the mill he so ably conducted was the great loyalty of his life.  For Ditmar, a Chippering could do no wrong.  It had been the keen eye of Mr. Stephen Chippering that first had marked him, questioned him, recognized his ability, and from the moment of that encounter his advance had been rapid.  When old Stephen had been called to his fathers, Ditmar’s allegiance was automatically, as it were, transferred to the two sons, George and Worthington, already members of the board of directors.  Sometimes Ditmar called on them at their homes, which stood overlooking the waters of the Charles River Basin.  The attitude toward him of the Chipperings and their wives was one of an interesting adjustment of feudalism to democracy.  They were fond of him, grateful to him, treating him with a frank camaraderie that had in it not the slightest touch of condescension, but Ditmar would have been the first to recognize that there were limits to the intimacy.  They did not, for instance—­no doubt out of consideration—­invite him to their dinner parties or take him to their club, which was not the same as that to which he himself belonged.  He felt no animus.  Nor would he, surprising though it may seem, have changed places with the Chipperings.  At an early age, and quite unconsciously, he had accepted property as the ruling power of the universe, and when family was added thereto the combination was nothing less than divine.