Ronald moved uneasily in his chair and his eyes wandered upward to the laurel-wreathed photograph of the pianist above his father’s head.

“_ Is_ it that, Ronald?  Speak out, my boy.  We’ll see, we’ll look round—­I’ll manage somehow.”

“No, no,” the young man interrupted, abruptly raising his hand as though to silence his father.

Mr. Grew recovered his cheerfulness.  “Well, what’s the matter than, if she’s willing?”

Ronald shifted his position again, and finally rose from his seat.

“Father—­I—­there’s something I’ve got to tell you.  I can’t take your money.”

Mr. Grew sat speechless a moment, staring blankly at his son; then he emitted a puzzled laugh.  “My money?  What are you talking about?  What’s this about my money?  Why, it ain’t mine, Ronny; it’s all yours—­every cent of it!” he cried.

The young man met his tender look with a gaze of tragic rejection.

“No, no, it’s not mine—­not even in the sense you mean.  Not in any sense.  Can’t you understand my feeling so?”

“Feeling so?  I don’t know how you’re feeling.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Are you too proud to touch any money you haven’t earned?  Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No.  It’s not that.  You must know—­”

Mr. Grew flushed to the rim of his bristling whiskers.  “Know?  Know what? Can’t you speak?”

Ronald hesitated, and the two men faced each other for a long strained moment, during which Mr. Grew’s congested countenance grew gradually pale again.

“What’s the meaning of this?  Is it because you’ve done something ... something you’re ashamed of ... ashamed to tell me?” he suddenly gasped out; and walking around the table he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.  “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, my boy.”

“It’s not that.  Why do you make it so hard for me?” Ronald broke out with passion.  “You must have known this was sure to happen sooner or later.”

“Happen?  What was sure to hap—?” Mr. Grew’s question wavered on his lip and passed into a tremulous laugh.  “Is it something I’ve done that you don’t approve of?  Is it—­is it the Buckle you’re ashamed of, Ronald Grew?”

Ronald laughed too, impatiently.  “The Buckle?  No, I’m not ashamed of the Buckle; not any more than you are,” he returned with a sudden bright flush.  “But I’m ashamed of all I owe to it—­all I owe to you—­when—­when—­” He broke off and took a few distracted steps across the room.  “You might make this easier for me,” he protested, turning back to his father.

“Make what easier?  I know less and less what you’re driving at,” Mr. Grew groaned.

Ronald’s walk had once more brought him beneath the photograph on the wall.  He lifted his head for a moment and looked at it; then he looked again at Mr. Grew.

“Do you suppose I haven’t always known?”