Jefferson shook his head. It was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured:
“It's impossible, father. I am devoted to my work. I even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. It will help me considerably.”
Ryder, Sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently:
“Don't be obstinate, Jeff. Listen to me. I know the world better than you do. You mustn't go away. You are the only flesh and blood I have.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. Jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. Seeing that his words had made no effect, Ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried:
“You see my weakness. You see that I want you with me, and now you take advantage—you take advantage—”
“No, father, I don't,” protested Jefferson; “but I want to go away. Although I have my studio and am practically independent, I want to go where I shall be perfectly free—where my every move will not be watched—where I can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where I shall not be pointed out as the son of Ready Money Ryder. I want to make a reputation of my own as an artist.”
“Why not study theology and become a preacher?” sneered Ryder. Then, more amiably, he said: “No, my lad, you stay here. Study my interests—study the interests that will be yours some day.”
“No,” said Jefferson doggedly, “I'd rather go—my work and my self-respect demand it.”