“Dear me,” exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at Shirley, “what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! How did you do it? I'm sure I couldn't. It's as much as I can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible.”
“Oh, it wasn't so hard,” laughed Shirley. “It was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. The trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. The whole country is talking about nothing else. My book came at the right time, that's all.”
Although “The American Octopus” was a direct attack on her own husband, Mrs. Ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. It was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant Man.
“I have always wanted a daughter,” went on Mrs. Ryder, becoming confidential, while Shirley removed her things and made herself at home; “girls of your age are so companionable.” Then, abruptly, she asked: “Do your parents live in New York?”
Shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment.
“No—not at present,” she answered evasively. “My mother and father are in the country.”
She was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently Mrs. Ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. She only said:
“I have a son, but I don't see much of him. You must meet my Jefferson. He is such a nice boy.”
Shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied:
“I met him yesterday. Mr. Ryder introduced him to me.”