“Governor Rice called.  He wants an appointment,” said Mr. Bagley, holding out a card.

“I can’t see him.  Tell him so,” came the answer, quick as a flash.  “Who else?” he demanded.  “Where’s your list?”

Mr. Bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over.

“General Abbey telephoned.  He says you promised—­”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Ryder impatiently, “but not here.  Down town, to-morrow, any time.  Next?”

The secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said: 

“There are some people downstairs in the reception room.  They are here by appointment.”

“Who are they?”

“The National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret Service from Washington,” replied Mr. Bagley.

“Who was here first?” demanded the financier.

“Sergeant Ellison, sir.”

“Then I’ll see him first, and the Committee afterwards.  But let them all wait until I ring.  I wish to speak with my son.”  He waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room.  Jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand.

“Well, Jefferson,” he said kindly, “did you have a good time abroad?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.  Such a trip is a liberal education in itself.”

“Ready for work again, eh?  I’m glad you’re back, Jefferson.  I’m busy now, but one of these days I want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future.  This artist business is all very well—­for a pastime.  But it’s not a career—­surely you can appreciate that—­for a young man with such prospects as yours.  Have you ever stopped to think of that?”

Jefferson was silent.  He did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing.  There must be an understanding sooner or later.  Why not now?

“The truth is, sir,” he began timidly, “I’d like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time.”

Ryder, Sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair.  Then he said with a smile: 

“Well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, I can’t—­but—­I will.  Come, what is it?” Then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, “I’ve had a very busy day, Jeff.  What with Trans-Continental and Trans-Atlantic and Southern Pacific, and Wall Street, and Rate Bills, and Washington I feel like Atlas shouldering the world.”

“The world wasn’t intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir,” rejoined Jefferson calmly.

His father looked at him in amazement.  It was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said.

“Why not?” he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise.  “Julius Caesar carried it.  Napoleon carried it—­to a certain extent.  However, that’s neither here nor there.  What is it, boy?”