So the days passed, Shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken.  She saw nothing of Ryder, Sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached.  She found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred.  Mrs. Ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none.  It was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband’s prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head.  She gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was “tainted.”  She shared her husband’s dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse.  The advent of Shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom.  Quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, Shirley would go into Mrs. Ryder’s room and chat until the financier’s wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them.

Nothing more had been said concerning Jefferson and Miss Roberts.  The young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements.  Her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of Senator Roberts.  As usual, Mrs. Ryder confided these little domestic troubles to Shirley.

“Jefferson,” she said, “is very angry.  He is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there’ll be another scene.”

“What objection has your son to Miss Roberts?” inquired Shirley innocently.

“Oh, the usual reason,” sighed the mother, “and I’ve no doubt he knows best.  He’s in love with another girl—­a Miss Rossmore.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Shirley simply.  “Mr. Ryder spoke of her.”

Mrs. Ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work.

The next afternoon Shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door.  Thinking it was another visit from Mrs. Ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly: 

“Come in.”

John Ryder entered.  He smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably: 

“I thought I’d run up to see how you were getting along.”