JOHN VASSAR’S sleep had been fitful and unsatisfying. Through hours of half-conscious brooding and dreaming he had seen the face of Virginia Holland. He had thus far found no time for social frivolities. The air of America was just the tonic needed to transform the tragic inheritance of the Old World into a passion for work that had practically ruled women out of the scheme of things.
He had dreamed of a home of his own in the dim future—yes—when the work of his career, the work he had planned for his country should have been done. This had been his life, the breath he breathed, his inspiration and religion—to lead an American renaissance of patriotism. America had never had a national spirit. His ambition was to fire the soul of thoughtless millions into a conscious love of country which would insure her glorious destiny.
A woman’s smile had upset this dream. Through the night he had tried in vain to throw off the obsession. At daylight he had fallen into a sleep of sheer exhaustion. It was nine o’clock before he was roused by a gentle knock on his door.
Marya’s voice was calling somewhere out of space.
“Uncle John—breakfast is waiting—may I come in?”
“All right—dearie—break right in!” he groaned.
“And I’ve a letter for you—a special letter—”
The sleeper was awake now, alert, eager—
“A special letter?”
“A big black man brought it just now. He’s waiting in the hall—says Miss Holland would like an answer.”