"Every time I came into town I went to his studio. My aunt had no idea what I was up to. And we did have such good times, Jim!—you see he was successful then, and he had a wonderful studio—and a car—and we ran out into the country and then returned to take tea in his studio.... And, Jim, it was all right—but it was not good for me." She clasped his arm with both of hers and rested her head on his shoulder; and went on talking in a steadier and more subdued voice: "I didn’t write you about it; I was very sure you wouldn’t approve. And my head was stuffed full of modernism and liberty and urge and the necessity for self-expression. I felt that I had a perfect right to enjoy myself.... And then came trouble. It always does.... Oswald’s father, Chiltern Grismer, came to the hospital one day, terribly wrought up and looking ghastly. "My aunt had gone to New York to consult a specialist, but he asked for me, and I came down to the private reception room. I was a graduate nurse then. Oh, Jim!—it was quite dreadful. He seemed to be scared until he saw that I was. Then he was fearfully harsh with me. He told me that my aunt was about to begin suit against him to recover some money—a great deal of money—which my aunt pretended I should have inherited from my grandmother, Mr. Grismer’s sister. "He said we were two adventuresses and that he would expose me and my unhappy origin—all that horror of my childhood——" A sob checked her; she rested in his arms, breathing fast and irregularly; then, recovering self-control: "I was bewildered. I told him I didn’t want his money. But there was in his eyes a terror which I could see there even when he was upbraiding and threatening me most violently. I didn’t know what to do; I wanted to go back to my ward, but he followed me and held the door closed, and I had to listen to the terrible, shameful things he said about my mother’s mother and my own mother and myself.... Well—just as he was about to leave, my aunt entered.... I was in tears, and Mr. Grismer’s face was all twisted and contorted with rage, as I thought; but it remained so, white and distorted, as though something had broken and he couldn’t recover the mobility of his features. I heard what my aunt said to him—I didn’t want to hear it. I cried out, protesting that I didn’t wish any of his money.... He went away with his face all twisted...." "What did your aunt say to him?"