She began at once:  “I’ve just had the most frightful scene with father,” she said.  “He’s been hearing a lot of stuff about you down town and it set him wild.”

“Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?” said he, looking at her unseeingly with haggard, cold eyes.  “And may I have some whisky?”

She rang.  “I hope the servants didn’t hear him,” she said.  Then, as a step sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were still laughing at some jest he had made.  In the doorway appeared her father one of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personal appearance of unconquerable might.  Burroughs was noted for his generosity and for his violent temper.  As a rule men of the largeness necessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness.  They are too busy for hatred.  They do not forgive; they are most careful not to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever it is to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities.  Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out of pursuing his enemies.  He enjoyed this so keenly that several times—­so it was said—­he had sacrificed real money to satisfy a revenge.  But these rumors may have wronged him.  It is hardly probable that a man who would let a weakness carry him to that pitch of folly could have escaped destruction.  For of all the follies revenge is the most dangerous—­as well as the most fatuous.

Burroughs had a big face.  Had he looked less powerful the bigness of his features, the spread of cheek and jowl, would have been grotesque.  As it was, the face was impressive, especially when one recalled how many, many millions he owned and how many more he controlled.  The control was better than the ownership.  The millions he owned made him a coward—­he was afraid he might lose them.  The millions he controlled, and of course used for his own enrichment, made him brave, for if they were lost in the daring ventures in which he freely staked them, why, the loss was not his, and he could shift the blame.  Usually Norman treated him with great respect, for his business gave the firm nearly half its total income, and it was his daughter and his wealth, prestige and power, that Norman was marrying.  But this evening he looked at the great man with a superciliousness that was peculiarly disrespectful from so young a man to one well advanced toward old age.  Norman had been feeling relaxed, languid, exhausted.  The signs of battle in that powerful face nerved him, keyed him up at once.  He waited with a joyful impatience while the servant was bringing cigars and whisky.  The enormous quantities of liquor he had drunk in the last few days had not been without effect.  Alcohol, the general stimulant, inevitably brings out in strong relief a man’s dominant qualities.  The dominant quality of Norman was love of combat.

“Josephine tells me you are in a blue fury,” said Norman pleasantly when the door was closed and the three were alone.  “No—­not a blue fury.  A black fury.”