"Ah, that's easy to say," replied the delegate, strangely unimpressed by an oration that had drawn tears to Mr. Barnsell's eyes. "It's easy to say that your father was a farmer, but can you prove it? Only yesterday I saw an interview with you in our capitalistic press on the occasion of your being elected president of one of these aristocratic social clubs,--which the people will raze to the ground immediately,--and this interview stated on your own authority that yours was one of the oldest and idlest families in this country." "The reporter misunderstood me," said Mr. Torby with the firmness of a man whose public life has made him long familiar with the phrase. Trevillian Torby sprang to his feet. "Father," he said pleadingly, "let me go upstairs and bring down Grandfather." "Goodness," exclaimed Mrs. Grey, "don't tell me that the original Ephraim is still alive!" "My father-in-law is very old," murmured Mrs. Torby faintly. "He shuns society." For the first time since the entrance of the People's delegate, the interest of the company turned from him and rested on the door through which Trevillian had departed. The idea that the great Ephraim--the founder of the colossal Torby fortune, the ancestor who had become almost a myth--was not only alive but living somewhere in the top of the palace which his money had built, was an overwhelming surprise to everyone. Everyone began calculating what his age must be, and having reached the conclusion that he was well over eighty, they were prepared to see Trevillian lead, wheel, or even carry him into the room; but the reality was very different. Ephraim Torby strode in ahead of his grandson. He was tall, over six feet, and the long plum-colored dressing-gown he was wearing made him look taller. The whiskers, which he wore in accordance with the fashion of his youth, gave to his shaven upper lip an added expression of shrewd humor. A slight smile wrinkled the upper part of his face, and his bright black eyes twinkled. From the moment he entered the room, the situation was in his hands. "Well," he said in a leisurely tone, addressing the delegate, "what's all this about?" The delegate in a few words, made less fluent by the fact that the old man had put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and was now studying the delegate in detail, explained the principles of the Bolshevist movement, and the relation of these principles to the present company.