“It's me and it isn't me,” went on Ryder flourishing the book. “This fellow Broderick is all right; he's successful and he's great, but I don't like his finish.”
“It's logical,” ventured Shirley.
“It's cruel,” insisted Ryder.
“So is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour instead of loving him,” retorted Shirley.
She spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. So far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. She was fast becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away.
“Um!” grunted Ryder, “you're a curious girl; upon my word you interest me!” He took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them over to her. “Here,” he said, “I want you to make as clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own imagination.”
Shirley turned the papers over carelessly.
“So you think your life is a good example to follow?” she asked with a tinge of irony.
“Isn't it?” he demanded.