“Do I care?  The more they attack me the more I like it.  Their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm.  What I am, the conditions of my time made me.  When I started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, I had but one goal—­success; I had but one aim—­to get rich.  I was lucky.  I made a little money, and I soon discovered that I could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields.  Railroad conditions helped me.  The whole country was money mad.  A wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and I was carried along on its crest.  I grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds.  I branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day—­the wonder of the twentieth century.  What do I care for the world’s respect when my money makes the world my slave?  What respect can I have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them?  Are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent?  I am the real ruler of the United States—­not the so-called government at Washington.  They are my puppets and this is my executive chamber.  This power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes.”

“I never want it, father,” said Jefferson firmly.  “To me your words savour of treason.  I couldn’t imagine that American talking that way.”  He pointed to the mantel, at the picture of George Washington.

Ryder, Sr., laughed.  He could not help it if his son was an idealist.  There was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: 

“All right, Jeff.  We’ll discuss the matter later, when you’ve cut your wisdom teeth.  Just at present you’re in the clouds.  But you spoke of my doing you an injustice.  How can my love of power do you an injustice?”

“Because,” replied Jefferson, “you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates.  You think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you.  Yours is an influence no one seems able to resist.  You robbed me of my right to think.  Ever since I was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since I was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me.  You have chosen that I should marry Kate Roberts.  That is the one thing I wished to speak to you about.  The marriage is impossible.”

Ryder, Sr., half sprang from his seat.  He had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the Ryder interests—­that was inconceivable.  Leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted Jefferson.