His coming was so unexpected that for a moment Shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat.  He seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him.  Shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw—­Wall Street had gone wrong with the Colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint—­she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him.  The more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil.

“What is the moral of your life?” she demanded bluntly.

He was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, what can you show as your life work?  Most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors.  What have you done?”

The question appeared to stagger him.  The audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible.  He squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table.

“What have I done?” he cried.  “I have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man.  My fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth.  Is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?”

Shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders.

“Future generations will take no interest in you or your millions,” she said calmly.  “Our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long.  Now it is different.  The world is money-mad.  You are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally.  When you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds.”

He laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk.  As a general thing, John Ryder never wasted words on women.  He had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman.  In fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone.  He gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to.  Yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly.  It was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth.