He was content.  He would fight and he would work.  That was all a man needed, a good fight, and work for his hands and brain.  A man could live without love if he had work.

He sat down on the stool and groaned.

XLVI

One thing Dick knew must be done and got over with.  He would have to see Elizabeth and tell her the story.  He knew it would do no good, but she had a right to the fullest explanation he could give her.  She did not love him, but it was intolerable that she should hate him.

He meant, however, to make no case for himself.  He would have to stand on the facts.  This thing had happened to him; the storm had come, wrought its havoc and passed; he was back, to start again as nearly as he could where he had left off.  That was all.

He went to the Wheeler house the next night, passing the door twice before he turned in and rang the bell, in order that his voice might be calm and his demeanor unshaken.  But the fact that Micky, waiting on the porch, knew him and broke into yelps of happiness and ecstatic wriggling almost lost him his self-control.

Walter Wheeler opened the door and admitted him.

“I thought you might come,” he said.  “Come in.”

There was no particular warmth in his voice, but no unfriendliness.  He stood by gravely while Dick took off his overcoat, and then led the way into the library.

“I’d better tell you at once,” he said, “that I have advised Elizabeth to see you, but that she refuses.  I’d much prefer—­” He busied himself at the fire for a moment.  “I’d much prefer to have her see you, Livingstone.  But—­I’ll tell you frankly—­I don’t think it would do much good.”

He sat down and stared at the fire.  Dick remained standing.  “She doesn’t intend to see me at all?” he asked, unsteadily.

“That’s rather out of the question, if you intend to remain here.  Do you?”

“Yes.”

An unexpected feeling of sympathy for the tall young man on the hearth rug stirred in Walter Wheeler’s breast.

“I’m sorry, Dick.  She apparently reached the breaking point a week or two ago.  She knew you had been here and hadn’t seen her, for one thing.”  He hesitated.  “You’ve heard of her engagement?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want it,” her father said drearily.  “I suppose she knows her own business, but the thing’s done.  She sent you a message,” he added after a pause.  “She’s glad it’s cleared up and I believe you are not to allow her to drive you away.  She thinks David needs you.”

“Thank you.  I’ll have to stay, as she says.”

There was another uncomfortable silence.  Then Walter Wheeler burst out: 

“Confound it, Dick, I’m sorry.  I’ve fought your battles for months, not here, but everywhere.  But here’s a battle I can’t fight.  She isn’t angry.  You’ll have to get her angle of it.  I think it’s something like this.  She had built you up into a sort of superman.  And she’s—­well, I suppose purity is the word.  She’s the essence of purity.  Then, Leslie told me this to-night, she learned from him that you were back with the woman in the case, in New York.”