Shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--Wall Street had gone wrong with the Colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him.

The more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil.
"What is the moral of your life ?" she demanded bluntly.
He was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him.
"What do you mean ?" he asked.
"I mean, What can you show as your life work?
Most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors.

What have you done ?" The question appeared to stagger him.

The audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible.
He squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table.
"What have I done ?" he cried.

"I have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man.