It was late afternoon, almost dusk. Shadows had begun to fill the room. Wint saw that his father’s face was black; and he got up from the bed and stood there for a moment, and he saw that his father was trembling. He took a step forward. “Father,” he said unsteadily, “I want to tell you I had nothing to do with this. I’m sorry. And I’ll do whatever you say to make things right.” The restraint which the elder Chase had imposed upon himself fled before the wind of passion. He lifted his clenched hands as though he would bring them down upon Wint’s head. “You! You!” he cried. “You’re my son--and you join with drunkards and vagabonds and thieves to make a laughingstock of me.” Wint protested. “I did not! I knew nothing.” “Don’t lie to me, Wint,” his father cried. The elder man’s anger was terrible. It swept away the poise with which he faced the world, it left him nothing but his wrongs; and these wrongs and his own rage somehow transfigured and ennobled him. In spite of himself, Wint had never respected and loved his father so much as then. He cried again, almost pleadingly: “Dad....” “Be quiet!” his father cried. “Don’t speak. It is my time to speak. I have kept silent too long. You have disgraced me with your drunkenness; and now you make a joke of me before the world. You....” “I tell you, I knew nothing of this till it was done.” “You lie. You lie, Wint! And even if it were true, you have made it possible by--by your debaucheries. You have given them the chance--you have made me the laughingstock--” he flung his arms wide. “Why even the Cincinnati papers have the story, Wint. They--the whole damned country knows....” His voice broke suddenly; his hands dropped at his side. Resentment fought with affection in Wint; and pride stiffened his voice as he said again: “I told you I’d do anything, dad.” “Anything? What good will that do? You and Caretall--laughing at me! I won’t stand it! I’ll break Caretall if it kills me. Caretall is a scoundrel, a crook. He’s debauched the town....” He stopped suddenly, he became cold and still. “Come down to supper, Wint,” he said shortly. “After that, you can get out. I’ve warned you enough--the last time. I’m through.” Wint stiffened. “Dad....” he said softly. His father made a fierce gesture. “Be quiet! I tell you I am through.” He whirled to the door, and opened it, and was gone before Wint could speak again. But while Wint still stood quiet, he returned and called: “I know where you were last night. That was enough. That alone. I’m through. Through!” This time he did not return. And Wint waited for a space, and then, mechanically and automatically, he picked up his hat, and put it on, and went down the stairs. His mother and father were in the dining-room. He heard his mother’s voice. But he did not go in.