He laughed at this. "Surely you don't know much of boxing or football," said he. "You ought not to fight," she reproved him. "On your first day--and all the town saw it, Don! You and I--we ought not to fight. What--on the first day I've seen you in all these years--the first day you're out of college--the first day I could ever in all my life claim you for my very own? I believe I _would_ have claimed you--yes, I do! But you came--when you knew you had a mother, why you came to her, didn't you, Don? Even me. But you mustn't fight." "Why?" He turned upon her quickly, his voice suddenly harsh, his eyes narrowing under drawn brows. "Why shouldn't I fight?" He seemed suddenly grown graver, more mature, strong, masterful, his eye threatening. She almost smiled as she looked at him, goodly as he was, her pride that she had borne him overpowering all, her exultation that she had brought a man into the world, a strong man, one fit to prevail, scornful of hurt--one who had fought for her! For the first time in her life a man had fought for her, and not against her. But on the soul of Aurora Lane still sat the ancient dread. She saw the issue coming now. "Mother----" said he, throwing his hat upon the table and walking toward her quickly. "Yes, Don." (She had named her son Dieudonne--"God-given." Those who did not know what this might mean later called him "Dewdonny," and hence "Don.") "I didn't thrash them half enough, those fellows, just now." "Don't say that, Don. It was too bad--it was terrible that it had to be today, right when you were first coming here. I had been waiting for you so long, and I wanted----" "Well, I tell you what I want--I want you just to come away with me. I want to get you away from this town, right away, at once, as quick as I can. I'm beginning to see some things and to wonder about others. I am ashamed I have cost you so much--in spite of what Dad left, you had to live close--I can see that now--although I never knew a thing about it until right now. I feel like a big loafer, spending all the money I have, while you have lived like this. Where did you get it, Mom?" She swept a gesture about her with both hands. "I got it here," said she suddenly. "It _all_ came from--here. You father sent you--nothing! I've not let you know all the truth--you've known almost nothing of the truth." Then her native instinct forced her to amend. "At least half of it came from here. It was honest money, Don, you know it was that, don't you--you believe it was honest?" "Money that would have burned my fingers if I had known how it came. But I didn't. What's up here? Have you fooled me, tricked me--made a loafer of me? I supposed my father set aside enough for my education--and enough for you, too. What's been wrong here? What's under all this? Tell me, now!"