Mr. Grew rose slowly from his chair. “The letters? Dolbrowski’s letters?” Ronald nodded with white lips. “You must remember giving them to me the day after the funeral.” Mr. Grew nodded back. “Of course. I wanted you to have everything your mother valued.” “Well--how could I help knowing after that?” “Knowing _what?_” Mr. Grew stood staring helplessly at his son. Suddenly his look caught at a clue that seemed to confront it with a deeper bewilderment. “You thought--you thought those letters ... Dolbrowski’s letters ... you thought they meant ...” “Oh, it wasn’t only the letters. There were so many other signs. My love of music--my--all my feelings about life ... and art... And when you gave me the letters I thought you must mean me to know.” Mr. Grew had grown quiet. His lips were firm, and his small eyes looked out steadily from their creased lids. “To know that you were Fortune Dolbrowski’s son?” Ronald made a mute sign of assent. “I see. And what did you mean to do?” “I meant to wait till I could earn my living, and then repay you ... as far as I can ever repay you... But now that there’s a chance of my marrying ... and your generosity overwhelms me ... I’m obliged to speak.” “I see,” said Mr. Grew again. He let himself down into his chair, looking steadily and not unkindly at the young man. “Sit down, Ronald. Let’s talk.” Ronald made a protesting movement. “Is anything to be gained by it? You can’t change me--change what I feel. The reading of those letters transformed my whole life--I was a boy till then: they made a man of me. From that moment I understood myself.” He paused, and then looked up at Mr. Grew’s face. “Don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your kindness--your extraordinary generosity. But I can’t go through life in disguise. And I want you to know that I have not won Daisy under false pretences--” Mr. Grew started up with the first expletive Ronald had ever heard on his lips. “You damned young fool, you, you haven’t _told_ her--?” Ronald raised his head quickly. “Oh, you don’t know her, sir! She thinks no worse of me for knowing my secret. She is above and beyond all such conventional prejudices. She’s _proud_ of my parentage--” he straightened his slim young shoulders--“as I’m proud of it ... yes, sir, proud of it...” Mr. Grew sank back into his seat with a dry laugh. “Well, you ought to be. You come of good stock. And you’re father’s son, every inch of you!” He laughed again, as though the humor of the situation grew on him with its closer contemplation. “Yes, I’ve always felt that,” Ronald murmured, flushing. “Your father’s son, and no mistake.” Mr. Grew leaned forward. “You’re the son of as big a fool as yourself. And here he sits, Ronald Grew.” The young man’s flush deepened to crimson; but Mr. Grew checked his reply with a decisive gesture. “Here he sits, with all your young nonsense still alive in him. Don’t you see the likeness? If you don’t, I’ll tell you the story of those letters.”