father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. He did
not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a
powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man.

Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meeting
of the Schiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up
by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly
meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the
last person to be discussed. He had gone out of curiosity, anxious
to take in all the freak shows New York had to offer, and he had
been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and
firm mouth. She was a writer, Miss Rossmore told him, and this was
her first visit also to the evening receptions of the Schiller
Society. Half apologetically she added that it was likely to be
her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. But she explained
that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in
gathering material for literary use. She studied types and
eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting
ground. Jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and
avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had
known. Her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and
he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many
interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served,
when the affair broke up. This first meeting had been followed by
a call at the Rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up
until Jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was
surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and
unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex.

The young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life,