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.
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.”
