“Happen? What was sure to hap—?” Mr. Grew’s question wavered on his lip and passed into a tremulous laugh. “Is it something I’ve done that you don’t approve of? Is it—is it the Buckle you’re ashamed of, Ronald Grew?”
Ronald laughed too, impatiently. “The Buckle? No, I’m not ashamed of the Buckle; not any more than you are,” he returned with a sudden bright flush. “But I’m ashamed of all I owe to it—all I owe to you—when—when—” He broke off and took a few distracted steps across the room. “You might make this easier for me,” he protested, turning back to his father.
“Make what easier? I know less and less what you’re driving at,” Mr. Grew groaned.
Ronald’s walk had once more brought him beneath the photograph on the wall. He lifted his head for a moment and looked at it; then he looked again at Mr. Grew.
“Do you suppose I haven’t always known?”
“Known—?”
“Even before you gave me those letters—after my mother’s death—even before that, I suspected. I don’t know how it began ... perhaps from little things you let drop ... you and she ... and resemblances that I couldn’t help seeing ... in myself ... How on earth could you suppose I shouldn’t guess? I always thought you gave me the letters as a way of telling me—”
Mr. Grew rose slowly from his chair. “The letters? Dolbrowski’s letters?”
Ronald nodded with white lips. “You must remember giving them to me the day after the funeral.”
Mr. Grew nodded back. “Of course. I wanted you to have everything your mother valued.”