“Father—I—there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I can’t take your money.”
Mr. Grew sat speechless a moment, staring blankly at his son; then he emitted a puzzled laugh. “My money? What are you talking about? What’s this about my money? Why, it ain’t mine, Ronny; it’s all yours—every cent of it!” he cried.
The young man met his tender look with a gaze of tragic rejection.
“No, no, it’s not mine—not even in the sense you mean. Not in any sense. Can’t you understand my feeling so?”
“Feeling so? I don’t know how you’re feeling. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you too proud to touch any money you haven’t earned? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No. It’s not that. You must know—”
Mr. Grew flushed to the rim of his bristling whiskers. “Know? Know what? Can’t you speak?”
Ronald hesitated, and the two men faced each other for a long strained moment, during which Mr. Grew’s congested countenance grew gradually pale again.
“What’s the meaning of this? Is it because you’ve done something ... something you’re ashamed of ... ashamed to tell me?” he suddenly gasped out; and walking around the table he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, my boy.”
“It’s not that. Why do you make it so hard for me?” Ronald broke out with passion. “You must have known this was sure to happen sooner or later.”