of the nothingness of man as among the ruins of this ridiculously modern
city of San Francisco. It fascinated him, but he told himself then that
he should leave it without a pang. He was a New Yorker of the seventh
generation of his house, and the rest of the United States of America was
merely incidental.

The business, a branch of the great New York firm founded in 1840 by an
ancestor grown weary of watching the broad acres of Ruyler Manor
automatically transmute themselves into the yearly rent-roll, and
reverting to the energy and merchant instincts of his Dutch ancestors,
had been conducted skillfully for the thirty years preceding the
disaster by Price's uncle, Dryden Ruyler. But the earthquake and fire in
which so many uninsured millions had vanished, had also wrecked men past
the rebounding age, and Dryden Ruyler was one of them. He might have
borne the destruction of the old business building down on Front Street,
or even the temporary stagnation of trade, but when the Pacific Union
Club disappeared in the raging furnace, and, like many of his old
cronies who had no home either in the country or out in the Western
Addition, he was driven over to Oakland for lodgings, this ghastly
climax of horrors--he escaped in a milk wagon after sleeping for two
nights without shelter on the bare hills behind San Francisco, while the
fire roared its defiance to the futile detonations of dynamite, and his
sciatica was as fiery as the atmosphere--had broken the old man's
spirit, and he had announced his determination to return to
Ruyler-on-Hudson and die as a gentleman should.

There was no question of Price's father, Morgan Ruyler, leaving New
York, even if he had contemplated the sacrifice for a moment; that his
second son and general manager of the several branches of the great
business of Ruyler and Sons--as integral a part of the ancient history