I did not see him again until 1917 when the United States had entered the World War, and I was visiting Paris. This third encounter with young Hyde had in it the dramatic elements of a Greek comedy. Later in this book, I describe how I made Hyde vice-president of the Metropolitan Opera Company, and facilitated his ambition to become a social leader in New York. Unappreciative of this service I had rendered him, and eager for yet greater social opportunities, Hyde had not been content to await the natural termination of my directorship, and had had the impudence to ask me to resign in favour of one of his friends. I had indignantly refused this preposterous request, and served out my term of office. In the insurance investigation there had been, therefore, a certain element of poetic justice in my being the instrument in the hand of destiny to give the little essential fillip to the events that caused his headlong fall from financial eminence. Our meeting in Paris in 1917 supplied the final touch of classic irony. There, Hyde, out of touch with his native land, somewhat chastened by contemplation of his abrupt fall from financial heights, found himself almost a man without a country in the midst of the World War, unable to gratify his ambition to be always in style--and now the style was to be in the military uniform of one’s country. I visited France soon after the entrance of America into that conflict, and during a brief interval of rest at Aix-les-Bains, I chanced upon John G. A. Leishmann and his vivacious daughter, who was Hyde’s wife. She had heard of my political association with President Wilson, but evidently she had forgotten, or was unaware of, my part in the financial downfall of her husband. She confided to me young Hyde’s and her own unhappiness that he had no active part in the service of his country, and begged me to use my influence to obtain for him some position in the American service where he could do his bit. I promised to do what I could.