One day, during the slack holiday season, Hannibal Wharton appeared at the Kurtz establishment. He appraised the elaborate surroundings with a hostile eye and stared at his son impassively. "So! You're a seamstress now," he began, and Bob grinned. "Merkle told me you repaid his loan and had an automobile." "That's true." "Second-hand car?" "No." "How much do you owe?" "Nothing, except for stock." "Stock! What do you mean?" "Kurtz and I are partners in one end of this business." "I'll be damned!" breathed Mr. Wharton. Then he inquired, curiously, "Do you like this work?" "It's not what I prefer, still there is a margin of profit." "Huh! I should think so, at ninety dollars a suit. Well, this town is full of fools." Bob agreed. "But we dress 'em better than they do in Pittsburg." After a moment's consideration Hannibal said slowly: "Mother's at the Waldorf; she wants to see you. You've just about broken her heart, Bob." "We're not going out much, but perhaps we could call on her--" "'We'! I said she wants to see YOU." "And not my wife?" "Certainly not. Neither do I. You don't seem to understand--" Bob answered smoothly: "Certainly I understand; you think ninety dollars is too much for a suit. Perhaps I can show you something in scarfs of an exclusive design?" "Don't be funny!" growled his father. "Really, dad, you'd better go. That suit of yours is a sight. Somebody may think we made it for you." Mr. Wharton remained silent for a moment. "The situation is impossible, and anybody but you would see it. We can't accept that woman, and we won't. She's notorious." "No more so than I--or you, for that matter." "She's a grafter. She'd quit you if I paid her enough." "How do you know?" "Her mother has been to see me half a dozen times. I've offered to pay her anything within reason, but they're holding out for something big. You come back, Bob. Let her go back to her own people." "And what's to become of the other one?" Bob was smiling faintly. "The other one? What do you mean?" "I mean there will be three in the family soon, dad; you're going to be a grandfather." The effect of this announcement was unexpected. Hannibal Wharton was momentarily stricken dumb, for once he was utterly at a loss. Then, instead of raising his voice, he spoke with a sharp, stuttering incisiveness: "So that's her game, eh? I suppose she thinks she'll breed her way into the family. Well, she won't. It won't work. I was willing to compromise before--so long as there was no tangible bond between that family and mine--but they've got their blood mixed with mine; they've got a finger-hold in spite of hell, and I suppose they'll hold on. But I won't acknowledge a grandchild with scum like that in its veins. Good God! Now listen--you." Wharton's jaw was outthrust, his gaze hard and unwavering. "No child tainted with that blood will share in one penny of my money, now or at any other time. Understand?"