"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."

The psycho-analyst put his finger tips together, judicially. "Yes. The
war bore me out," he observed with a certain complacence. "It added a
great deal to our literature, too, although some of the