“But I’m not the type of man who cannot understand. I will meet you as an intellectual equal. I’ll do more. I concede your superiority. You have baffled and defeated me at every turn tonight--I go puzzled and humiliated. I refuse to accept such a defeat. You cannot dismiss me in this absurd fashion. I’ll camp on your doorstep until we have this thing out.” “You’ll not call without an appointment, I hope?” “Oh, yes, I will. I’m going to cultivate your father. I’ll accept his invitation. I’ll make your house my happy home until we at least come to an intelligent understanding of our differences--” “Tomorrow then?” she said. “I’m tired tonight. Tomorrow at eleven o’clock--” Vassar smiled at the business-like hour. “I’ve an important engagement at eleven that will keep me an hour. It’s Flag Day at my schools--the kiddies expect me--” “Flag Day?” “A little device of mine to teach our boys and girls to love their country--won’t you join us tomorrow at the old Tenth Armory and inspect my forces?” Virginia hesitated. “All right, I will. I’ll ask Mr. Waldron to pick me up there at noon.” “I’ll expect you at eleven.” He pressed her hand with a new sense of uneasiness, defeat and anger which Waldron’s name had aroused. CHAPTER VIII John Vassar’s sleep had been fitful and unsatisfying. Through hours of half-conscious brooding and dreaming he had seen the face of Virginia Holland. He had thus far found no time for social frivolities. The air of America was just the tonic needed to transform the tragic inheritance of the Old World into a passion for work that had practically ruled women out of the scheme of things. He had dreamed of a home of his own in the dim future--yes--when the work of his career, the work he had planned for his country should have been done. This had been his life, the breath he breathed, his inspiration and religion--to lead an American renaissance of patriotism. America had never had a national spirit. His ambition was to fire the soul of thoughtless millions into a conscious love of country which would insure her glorious destiny. A woman’s smile had upset this dream. Through the night he had tried in vain to throw off the obsession. At daylight he had fallen into a sleep of sheer exhaustion. It was nine o’clock before he was roused by a gentle knock on his door. Marya’s voice was calling somewhere out of space. “Uncle John--breakfast is waiting--may I come in?” “All right--dearie--break right in!” he groaned. “And I’ve a letter for you--a special letter--” The sleeper was awake now, alert, eager-- “A special letter?” “A big black man brought it just now. He’s waiting in the hall--says Miss Holland would like an answer.” Vassar seized the letter and read with a broad grin. The handwriting was absurdly delicate. The idea that a suffragette could have written it was ridiculous! MY DEAR MR. VASSAR: