“You must not judge from appearances,” she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel.  “Jeff and I may hide a passion that burns like a volcano.  All lovers are not demonstrative, you know.”

The absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with Jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined.

“Then why did you remain here with me when the Senator went out with Mr. Ryder, senior?” he demanded.

“To tell you that I cannot listen to your nonsense any longer,” retorted the girl.

“What?” he cried, incredulously.  “You remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so.  Kate, your coldness is not convincing.”

“You mean you think I want to listen to you?” she demanded.

“I do,” he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms.

“Mr. Bagley!” she exclaimed, recoiling.

“A week ago,” he persisted, “you called me Fitzroy.  Once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me Fitz.”

“You hadn’t asked me to marry you then,” she laughed mockingly.  Then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly:  “Good-bye, Mr. Bagley, I am going upstairs to Mrs. Ryder.  I will await my father’s return in her room.  I think I shall be safer.”

He ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him.  The door slammed in his face and she was gone.

Meantime Jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother’s room.  He knocked.

“Come in!” called out the familiar voice.  He entered.  Mrs. Ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts.

“Hello, mother!” he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way.  Jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son.

“Jefferson!” she exclaimed when he released her.  “My dear boy, when did you arrive?”

“Only yesterday.  I slept at the studio last night.  You’re looking bully, mother.  How’s father?”

Mrs. Ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly.  In her heart she was glad Jefferson had turned out as he had.  Her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books.  Answering his question she said: 

“Your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be.  He’s considerably worried just now over that new book ‘The American Octopus.’  How dare they make him out such a monster?  He’s no worse than other successful business men.  He’s richer, that’s all, and it makes them jealous.  He’s out driving now with Senator Roberts.  Kate is somewhere in the house—­in the library, I think.”