A feeling of resentment swept John Vassar. How dare this bully assume such familiarity with Virginia Holland! She had met him as a patron of the cause of woman’s suffrage. One would think he had the right to her soul and body by the way he asked her to act as the hostess of his establishment. The thought that enraged him was that the banker was so cocksure of himself, his position. No robber baron of the Middle Ages could have felt more irresponsible in the exercise of his power. The consciousness of this power oozed from the fat pores of Waldron’s skin. He exuded the idea as he breathed.
Vassar’s first impression on entering the great house confirmed his idea of the man’s character. The whole conception of the place rested squarely on the royal splendors of the Old World. The lines of the huge building were a combination of two famous castles of medieval France, both the homes of kings. The great hall was an exact copy in form and decoration of the throne room of Napoleon in the palace at Versailles.
His library walls above the bookcases bristled with arms and armor. Anything more utterly undemocratic could not have been found in the centers of Europe.
The atmosphere of the place was stifling.
Vassar turned to Virginia with a movement of impatience.
“You like this?” he asked.
“I think it very imposing,” was the diplomatic answer.
“So do I,” he snapped, “and that’s why I loathe it. Such ostentation in a democracy whose life is just beginning can mean but one thing. The man who built this castle to crown the highest hill of a city is capable of building a throne in the East Room of the White House if the time ever comes that he dares—”
Virginia shook her head good-humoredly.
“I’m afraid you’re prejudiced against our patron saint.”