His father listened till his whistle trailed off into silence in the upper regions. His dark eyes clouded with regret. Steve had adapted his selection to dirge tempo.
As father and son smoked and drank their coffee in front of the library fire after dinner, Peter Courtlandt found it even more difficult to approach the distasteful subject. He talked nervously of politics, labor conditions and the latest play. His son watched him keenly through narrowed lids. He emptied and filled his pipe thoughtfully as he waited for a break in his father's flood of words. When it came he dashed in.
"What's the business you wanted to talk with me about, Sir Peter? Fire away and let's get it over. Anything wrong?"
The elder man bent forward to knock the ashes from his cigar. The gravity of Steve's "Sir Peter" had moved him curiously. It was the name his wife had called him, which the boy had adopted when he was too grown-up to say "Daddy." Silent seconds lengthened into minutes as he sat there. The quiet of the room was subtly portentous. There was a hint of unsteadiness in his voice when he finally spoke.
"It's all wrong, Steve. Everything we have is mortgaged to the gunwales."
"But I thought——" The end of the sentence was submerged in stunned amazement.
"That we couldn't go broke? Well, we have. We lose everything we have to-morrow unless——" He dropped his head on his hand.
"Unless what?" prompted Steve.
Courtlandt leaned his white head against the back of his chair and looked at his son with haggard eyes. His voice was strained, humiliated.
"Unless—unless you marry Glamorgan's daughter."