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.