It was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but Mr.Ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in New York at this time, and Mrs.Ryder, who was one of the few American wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord.
Jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal.

The sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs.

But the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and Jefferson was under his father's roof.
"Is my father in ?" he demanded of the man.
"No, sir," was the respectful answer.

"Mr.Ryder has gone out driving, but Mr.Bagley is upstairs." Then after a brief pause he added: "Mrs.Ryder is in, too." In this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife.
Jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet.

On the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing Ajax and Ulysses contending for the armour of Achilles.