For he had confided in his father the episodes of the punch and the young person. Never had his father and he been closer together in mind and spirit than after that confession. In spite of several advances made by Chiltern Grismer, whose son, Oswald, was also at Harvard and a popular man in his class, John Cleland remained politely unreceptive; and there were no social amenities exchanged. Jim Cleland and Oswald Grismer did not visit each other, although friendly enough at Cambridge. Cleland Senior made no particular effort to discourage any such friendly footing, and he was not inclined to judge young Grismer by his father. He merely remained unresponsive. In such cases, he who makes the advances interprets their non-success according to his own nature. And Grismer concluded that he had been a victim of insidious guile and sharp practice, and that John Cleland had taken Stephanie to his heart only after he had learned that, some day, she would inherit the Quest fortune from her eccentric relative. Chagrin and sullen irritation against Cleland had possessed him since he first learned of this inheritance; and he nourished both until they grew into a dull, watchful anger. And he waited for something or other that might in some way offer him a chance to repair the vital mistake he had made in his attitude toward the child. But Cleland gave him no opening whatever; Grismer’s social advances were amiably ignored. And it became plainer and plainer to Grismer, as he interpreted the situation, that John Cleland was planning to unite, through his son Jim, the comfortable Cleland income with the Quest millions, and to elbow everybody else out of the way. "The philanthropic hypocrite," mused Grismer, still smarting from a note expressing civil regrets in reply to an invitation to Stephanie and Jim to join them after church for a motor trip to Lakewood. "Can’t they come?" inquired Oswald. "Previous engagement," snapped Grismer, tearing up the note. His wife, an invalid, with stringy hair and spots on her face, remarked with resignation that the Clelands were too stylish to care about plain, Christian people. "Stylish," repeated Grismer, "I’ve got ten dollars to Cleland’s one. I can put on style enough to swamp him if I’ve a mind to!—m-m-m’yes, if I’ve a mind to." "Why don’t you?" inquired Oswald, with a malicious side glance at his father’s frock coat and ready-made cravat. "Chuck the religious game and wear spats and a topper! It’s a better graft, governor." Chiltern Grismer, only partly attentive to his son’s impudence, turned a fierce, preoccupied glance upon him. But his mind was still intrigued with that word "stylish." It began to enrage him. He repeated it aloud once or twice, sneeringly: "So you think we may not be sufficiently stylish to suit the Clelands—or that brat they picked out of the sewer? M-m-m’yes, out of an east-side sewer!" Oswald pricked up his intelligent and rather pointed ears.