She stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying. He was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts. Her sudden silence aroused him. He apologized:
“Oh, excuse me—I didn't quite catch what you were saying.”
She said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded. He read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed:
“For the first time in my life I am face to face with defeat—defeat of the most ignominious kind—incapacity—inability to regulate my own internal affairs. I can rule a government, but I can't manage my own family—my own son. I'm a failure. Tell me,” he added, appealing to her, “why can't I rule my own household, why can't I govern my own child?”
“Why can't you govern yourself?” said Shirley quietly.
Ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said:
“You can help me, but not by preaching at me. This is the first time in my life I ever called on a living soul for help. I'm only accustomed to deal with men. This time there's a woman in the case—and I need your woman's wit—”
“How can I help you?” asked Shirley.
“I don't know,” he answered with suppressed excitement. “As I told you, I am up against a blank wall. I can't see my way.” He gave a nervous little laugh and went on: “God! I'm ashamed of myself—ashamed! Did you ever read the fable of the Lion and the Mouse? Well, I want you to gnaw with your sharp woman's teeth at the cords which bind the son of John Burkett Ryder to this Rossmore woman. I want you to be the mouse—to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement.”