Jefferson left the room, and Ryder, Sr., as if exhausted by the violence of his own outburst, sank back limp in his chair.  The crisis he dreaded had come at last.  His son had openly defied his authority and was going to marry the daughter of his enemy.  He must do something to prevent it; the marriage must not take place, but what could he do?  The boy was of age and legally his own master.  He could do nothing to restrain his actions unless they put him in an insane asylum.  He would rather see his son there, he mused, than married to the Rossmore woman.

Presently there was a timid knock at the library door.  Ryder rose from his seat and went to see who was there.  To his surprise it was Miss Green.

“May I come in?” asked Shirley.

“Certainly, by all means.  Sit down.”

He drew up a chair for her, and his manner was so cordial that it was easy to see she was a welcome visitor.

“Mr. Ryder,” she began in a low, tremulous voice, “I have come to see you on a very important matter.  I’ve been waiting to see you all evening—­and as I shall be here only a short time longer I—­ want to ask yon a great favour—­perhaps the greatest you were ever asked—­I want to ask you for mercy—­for mercy to—­”

She stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying.  He was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts.  Her sudden silence aroused him.  He apologized: 

“Oh, excuse me—­I didn’t quite catch what you were saying.”

She said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded.  He read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed: 

“For the first time in my life I am face to face with defeat—­ defeat of the most ignominious kind—­incapacity—­inability to regulate my own internal affairs.  I can rule a government, but I can’t manage my own family—­my own son.  I’m a failure.  Tell me,” he added, appealing to her, “why can’t I rule my own household, why can’t I govern my own child?”

“Why can’t you govern yourself?” said Shirley quietly.

Ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said: 

“You can help me, but not by preaching at me.  This is the first time in my life I ever called on a living soul for help.  I’m only accustomed to deal with men.  This time there’s a woman in the case—­and I need your woman’s wit—­”

“How can I help you?” asked Shirley.

“I don’t know,” he answered with suppressed excitement.  “As I told you, I am up against a blank wall.  I can’t see my way.”  He gave a nervous little laugh and went on:  “God!  I’m ashamed of myself—­ ashamed!  Did you ever read the fable of the Lion and the Mouse?  Well, I want you to gnaw with your sharp woman’s teeth at the cords which bind the son of John Burkett Ryder to this Rossmore woman.  I want you to be the mouse—­to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement.”