That all Hugh Benton’s problems were not concerned with his own troublesome heart where the fair Geraldine DeLacy was concerned, or with his daughter whose willfulness he feared might lead her into a marriage less desirable than the one he hoped for with Paul Bronlee, came home to him in a cataclysmic rush a few days later when Howard, his son, appeared on the immediate horizon. Howard had been so long at college that Hugh had got into the habit of thinking of him as merely a financial annoyance, the personal equation of which was luckily distant. There was not much affection between the two. There could not have been, since Hugh Benton had seen his son so rarely during those portions of his vacation the young man chose to spend in his home. But Hugh Benton never forgot his fatherly duties. He remembered that Howard was his son. And how, indeed, was he to forget it after that blithe and dashing young man had been home from college for a few weeks. It was shortly after the Thurston dance that Howard had been graduated. It had been rather as much of a surprise to Howard that this had been accomplished as it had to anyone else—nevertheless, it had been done. He had flunked in everything the beginning of the term, but mysteriously he had managed to get through by an amazingly close margin. Marjorie was very proud of her son. Mother-like, she overlooked all of his faults—saw him only through eyes of love, and did not attempt to look beneath the surface. To his father, though, Howard was not a young god. He saw him as he was: egotistical, reckless, a selfish young spendthrift. Hugh called him into the library one evening after he had had time to consider the young man’s case. “I want to have a little talk with you, Howard,” he told his son with a firmness that presaged no casual talk. “All right, Dad, see that it is a _little_ talk, as I have a date in town.” Howard dropped lazily on the davenport, extracted a cigarette from his new platinum case and blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling. The parent eyed his offspring critically. He was considering him from all angles. Handsome enough, he thought, and there was self-satisfaction in his recognition of his own features in those of his sprawling son. But another thought came to drive away pleasure in any personal appearance. “And insolent, too,” was the further thought, and an ominous frown accompanied the mental comment. But when he spoke aloud, it was slowly and with the dignity he always used when addressing Howard. He indicated the sprawling attitude. “I prefer to have you sit up while I talk,” he said with unmistakable reproof, “and as for your—er—date—it will have to wait.” “I say—” Howard began, but as he caught sight of his father’s stern countenance, he slowly straightened out of his reclining position, and sat waiting. “Howard,” Hugh went directly to the point, “I haven’t been at all satisfied with your conduct during your three years at college——”