George plunged through and closed the door.

The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly
with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze
of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered
table at the opposite end.

At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man.

"Step over here, Morton."

There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back
was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of
fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he
faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He
couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable
boys tortured caps.

The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culprit
at ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white side
whiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composed
a portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with.
George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as good
as Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable.
No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone out
into the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He had
piled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He had
built this house and all it stood for. What one man had done another
could. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table as
into a ring. His momentary fear died.

"You sent for me, sir."

The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled to
it, from him or any one else.

The bass voice had a dynamic quality.

"I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter.
It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why I
told your father to send you. If I were younger it would give me
pleasure to break every bone in your body."

The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. They
softened now in a species of smile.

"I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon."

George managed to smile back.

"Nothing to speak of, sir."

"I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn't
biblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment to
fit the crime."

"It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult."