She dropped the brush, and he stooped to pick it up.  That gave her a moment.

“’Where?” she managed.

“To Dry River, by way of Norada.”

“Why should you go back there?” she asked, in a carefully suppressed voice.  “Why don’t you go East?  You’ve wanted to go back to Johns Hopkins for months?”

“On the other hand, why shouldn’t I go hack to Norada?” he asked, with an affectation of lightness.  Then he put his hand on her shoulders.  “Why shouldn’t I go back and clear things up in my own mind?  Why shouldn’t I find out, for instance, that I am a free man?”

“You are free.”

“I’ve got to know,” he said, almost doggedly.  “I can’t take a chance.  I believe I am.  I believe David, of course.  But anyhow I’d like to see the ranch.  I want to see Maggie Donaldson.”

“She’s not at the ranch.  Her husband died, you know.”

“I have an idea I can find her,” he said.  “I’ll make a good try, anyhow.”

When he had gone she got her salts bottle and lay down on her bed.  Her heart was hammering wildly.

Elizabeth was waiting for him in the living-room, in the midst of her family.  She looked absurdly young and very pretty, and he had a momentary misgiving that he was old to her, and that—­Heaven save the mark!—­that she looked up to him.  He considered the blue dress the height of fashion and the mold of form, and having taken off his overcoat in the hall, tried to put on Mr. Wheeler’s instead in his excitement.  Also, becoming very dignified after the overcoat incident, and making an exit which should conceal his wild exultation and show only polite pleasure, he stumbled over Micky, so that they finally departed to a series of staccato yelps.

He felt very hot and slightly ridiculous as he tucked Elizabeth into the little car, being very particular about her feet, and starting with extreme care, so as not to jar her.  He had the feeling of being entrusted temporarily with something infinitely precious, and very, very dear.  Something that must never suffer or be hurt.

VI

On Wednesday morning David was in an office in the city.  He sat forward on the edge of his chair, and from time to time he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face or polished his glasses, quite unconscious of either action.  He was in his best suit, with the tie Lucy had given him for Christmas.

Across from him, barricaded behind a great mahogany desk, sat a small man with keen eyes and a neat brown beard.  On the desk were a spotless blotter, an inkstand of silver and a pen.  Nothing else.  The terrible order of the place had at first rather oppressed David.

The small man was answering a question.

“Rather on the contrary, I should say.  The stronger the character the greater the smash.”

David pondered this.

“I’ve read all you’ve written on the subject,” he said finally.  “Especially since the war.”