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 by the indignity of his surroundings. He did not rise. At Don's challenging stare, he said: "Well, come in." Don crossed the threshold. His father scrutinized him silently as if trying to see in his appearance some indication of what had been happening to him in New York. He was pale, shabby, thin, and as dumb as guilt.

Mr. Gregg pushed away from him a dish of half-eaten porridge that had turned brown in its milk. He put his elbow on the table with the air of beginning an examination. "Your mother hears that you are going on the stage. Is this true?"

Don said thickly: "Yes."

Mr. Gregg raised his eyebrows. "Do you find that sort of life particularly inviting?"

Don shook his head. "No."

"You do it, then, because you feel that you have great dramatic ability?"

But this sarcasm made Don aware that he was being treated as a child, and recovering from the first instinctive obedience that had moved his tongue in spite of himself, he refused to reply.

Mr. Gregg went on slowly: "Or is it because the wages are so high for beginners? . . . and the prospects of advancement so alluring?"

Don looked up at him with narrowed eyes, meditating a defiant answer. His father put in, quickly, in another tone: "Don't misunderstand me, now. I have not come here to find fault with you. I merely wish to know why you are doing it."

"Because there's nothing else," he replied sullenly.

His father refused to accept the challenge of his