“And to think,” he mused, as he finished them, “that these fanatics believe—­really believe—­they can make headway anywhere in this country, now!  Ten years ago, yes, they might have.  But that’s not today.  Then, publie opinion—­stupid and futile as it was—­could still be aroused.  Then, there was a really effective labor and Socialist press.  And the Limited Franchise Bill hadn’t gone through.  Neither had the enlarged Military Bill, the National Censorship nor even the Grays—­the National Mounted Police.  While now—­ah, thank Heaven, it’s all so different and so easy that I call myself a fool, at times, for even giving these matters a single thought!

“Well,” he concluded, handing the letters back to his confidential secretary, for mailing, “well, now that’s done, at any rate.  So then, to the S. & S. committee meeting.  And tonight my little talk with Kate.  I’ll soon bring her to reason, I’m sure.  There’s nothing can’t be accomplished by a little patience and persuasion.”

The old Billionaire chose his time well, that night, for the vital interview with his daughter, who had so far rebelled against his authority as to break with the man most eminently acceptable to him.  After a simple but exquisite dinner in the Venetian room, he asked the girl to play for him, which (he knew) always pleased her and put her in a receptive mood.

“Play for you, father?” she answered.  “Of course I will, anything and as much as you like!  What shall it be, tonight?  Chopin, or Grieg, or—?”

“Anything that pleases you, suits me, my dear,” he answered, smiling with satisfaction at his ruse.  Never had he felt more masterful.  He had allowed himself a trifle more morphia than usual that day, by reason of the approaching interview; and now the subtle drug filled him with well-being and seemed to enhance his self-control and power.  Lighting a cigar—­rare treat for him—­he offered Kate his arm; and together, unattended by any valet or domestic, they walked along the high, paneled hallway, hung with Gobelin tapestries, and so reached the magnificent music-room which Kate claimed, in a way, as her own special place at Idle Hour.

Here everything suggested harmony.  The mahogany wainscotted walls were decked with fine portraits of the world’s great masters of melody.  Handsome cabinets contained costly and elaborate collections and folios of music, a complete library of the entire world’s best productions.  The girl’s harp—­a masterpiece by Pestalozzi of Venice—­stood at one side; on the other, a five hundred dollar Victrola, with a wonderful repertoire of records.  But the grand piano itself dominated all, especially made for Catherine by Durand Freres, in Paris, and imported on the Billionaire’s own yacht, the “Bandit.”  A wondrous instrument, this, finer even than the pipe-organ in an alcove at the far end of the room.  It summed up all that the world’s masters knew of instrument-production; and its cost, from factory to its present place at Idle Hour, represented twenty years’ wages, and more, of any of Flint’s slaves in the West Virginia mines or the Glenn Pool oil-fields of Oklahoma.