"Renny thinks I'm an ass."
Ernest sat down beside him. He put all the persuasiveness, all the eloquence of which he was capable, into his voice. "Renny loves you. He wants you to come home like a good boy, without any further trouble. He is willing, after you've tried your examinations, to let you take music lessons again—to play as much as you want to. All you have to do is to try your exams."
"What if I fail?"
"You won't fail. You'll pass. You did not fail badly last time. You're sure to pass."
"And if I do—what then?"
"You have all your life before you. You'll make something fine of it."
"I don't see myself," said Finch wearily.
"Finch, you had a very clever and very lovely mother. She would have wanted you to develop your talent—to be a credit to us."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed the boy. "This sort of talk is new to me! My talents—my mother"
"But, my dear child," cried Ernest in exasperation, for his head was beginning to ache, "families will make remarks. You don't expect"
"Gran often makes sneering remarks about her—my mother. I hear her, though I've pretended not."
"Your grandmother is a hundred and one. Your mother has been dead eleven years. What have their relations to do with the question in hand. . . . Really, you are wearing me out! The point is this." Ernest made a supreme effort. "What is there for you in New York? Crowds, crowds, crowds. Struggle, struggle. You, a Whiteoak, struggling in a foreign mob! Uncongenial work. Homesickness. You know you're horribly homesick, Finch. I've been watching you. You're homesick."
"Don't!" cried the boy in anguish, putting his head on the table. "I can't bear it! Oh, Uncle Ernest, do you really think I'd better go back?"
