All thought of the sickly-smiling Loveman, and all his ironic jocularity, slipped from Clifford as he stepped back into the graver situation which existed in the drawing-room. The pair had seated themselves during his absence; Mary was regarding Mr. Morton with a composure that must have heavily taxed her nervous capital. Clifford took a chair slightly apart. He felt that he had become merely an onlooker. The scene was to be played out between Mr. Morton and Mary. He judged that the easy manner of Mr. Morton was a ruthless fury, marvelously controlled. Watching them, he pulsed with suspense as to how Mary would bear herself during this scene, as to how it would come out. Clifford had found them silent when he had reëntered, and this silence, pregnant with big drama, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Morton smiled. “I don’t believe in beating about the bush, Mrs. Grayson. It’s awfully hard on the shrubbery. So I’ll come to the point. Of course you know why I’m here.” “You said you came to renew your acquaintance with Miss Gilmore,” she managed to say. “Oh, that, of course. But there’s another reason. You see”--with his pleasant smile--“I happen to know Mr. Grayson.” (Why in God’s name, Clifford asked himself, didn’t the man set loose the anger and denunciation and defiance customary in such situations, and not play this cat-and-mouse game!) “And Mr. Grayson being such a good friend,” Mr. Morton continued, “in fact, a most intimate friend, I naturally was most eager to become acquainted with Mrs. Grayson. Please do not consider that I am descending to mere flattery, Mrs. Grayson, when I say that I applaud his taste.” “Thank you.” “I do not mean to depreciate him, but he has shown a finer discrimination than I thought Mr. Grayson capable of.” Clifford saw Mary stiffen. He knew her instinct to rush forth to meet an inevitable danger. “I also do not believe in beating about the bush,” she said quietly. “We both are aware that in speaking of Mr. Grayson we are speaking of your son.” The veiled keenness in Mr. Morton’s eyes became open. “I perceive, Mrs. Grayson, that you are not only beautiful, but that you are an unusual woman.” He did not speak for a moment; then, “Let me add that I not only applaud Jack’s taste, but approve his choice.” Both Clifford and Mary started. “You approve Jack’s choice!” she breathed. “How could I help it?” he returned. Clifford and Mary could only stare at him. They had expected outraged fury--and this had come! They were so dazed that they did not know Jack had entered until he stammered:-- “Father--you here!” “The evidence indicates such, my boy,” returned the elder Morton. “Why--why--” He looked about, frightened, helpless, at the three; and then stammered on: “I went to the Biltmore to meet you, as you telephoned; but they told me you were out, and I thought I’d run up here for a minute and then get back--”