“No,” Vassar answered steadily, “I’m not prejudiced. I hate him with the hatred that is uncompromising—that’s all. There’s not room for the two things for which we stand in this republic. One of us must live, the other die.”
“I suppose a woman doesn’t look on such a house as this with your eyes,” she answered smiling.
“No, that’s just it—you don’t—and it’s one of the reasons why I’m afraid of you—”
Vassar turned to examine the collection of chain armor at the end of the room without waiting for her answer. He was in a bad humor. The place had gotten on his nerves.
When he returned again, regretting his curt speech, she was standing at the entrance talking in low tones to Waldron. His footstep had made no sound on the cushion of oriental rugs which covered the inlaid marble floor.
Without so much as a look his way she passed Waldron and left the library.
The banker walked briskly toward Vassar and waved his short, heavy arm toward a chair.
“Won’t you sit down, sir?” he asked coldly.
With mechanical precision he opened a jeweled cigarette box and extended it.
“Thanks,” Vassar answered carelessly, “I have a cigar.”