"Why the past tense? Are you a useful animal now?"
"N-no, sir. I guess it would be exaggerating the facts if I claimed that! But my intentions are good." Simon's lips lifted. "I want to get busy at something useful right away."
"Humph. You're just out of college and the general idea has been that you would take a post-graduate course in the Columbia Law School; that is your mother's wish. The tannery, if I may so express it, has always been a stench in her nostrils. She is not the first woman to quarrel with the honest source of her bread-and-butter." He stared at his son from beneath level brows. "Well? Have plans changed?"
"I want to make money, sir, and it would be years before I could hope to do that at the Bar."
"I will undertake to continue your allowance until you have established yourself."
"Thank you, father, but it's not the same thing. I want to stand on my own feet—and as soon as possible."
"Why?"
"Because I wish—I intend—to marry Sheila Graham."
"You shan't do it!"
It was the drop of the handkerchief; steel rang upon steel, and no buttons tipped their foils. It was careful fencing at first, thrust and parry, parry and thrust, until Simon lost patience at length and put all his viciousness into one deadly lunge.