‘I had to. I don’t even remember, most of it.’ ‘Come on, let’s go in to dinner.... No, Nancy isn’t married yet, but the house feels as if news might break out any day--likely by the time I--we--get back--’ The last was nothing like a foregone conclusion, but phrased tentatively, with questioning look. ‘No, I won’t be going back just yet,’ Elbert said. He felt the silence; also suddenly he felt his father’s side as well as his own. A man accustomed to a houseful of daughters might really want to have his only son standing beside him very much. It was an entirely new angle. ‘Haven’t got enough?’ ‘Not quite through--’ ‘Going back to Heaslep’s?’ ‘Oh, no--’ No resistance from his father. Elbert hardly knew how to handle this new man-to-man acquiescence--no tampering. He had braced himself, but no strength was required; and now for a moment he was unnerved by friendliness. Was his father changed, because of things the newspapers said about his drive to Nogales? A whole lot of stuff had been written which no fellow could pay any attention to, about himself. Elbert began to feel an almost irresistible impulse to tell the whole story to his father. ‘Not going back to San Pasquali?’ the latter asked. ‘No.’ ‘I was hoping you didn’t mean to tie up with this man, Burton--’ ‘Oh, no.’ ‘And those friends of yours--those cowhands--’ ‘I’m planning to be alone for a while.’ Elbert’s answers were automatic. A fight was still on in him, not to divulge about Bob Leadley and the gold mine. It seemed almost that his father had the right to know--but Elbert kept his mouth shut. Toward the end of dinner the elder man said with a laugh: ‘You’ll be needing some money--’ ‘No, I’m all fixed, thanks.’ Elbert couldn’t follow his father’s reaction to that. Mr. Sartwell said nothing, but seemed both glad and sorry at the same time. After that he spoke with even a little more care, not to impose his will. It was like two men talking in a club, about anything in the world, except what each meant to the other. * * * * * Elbert was waiting in the reception room of the Finishing School. It was the summer season and only a few of the girls were staying over--those whose families did not live in Tucson, possibly. The place was shaded and flowery; blossoms on all the tables, and one great basket, shaped like a French hat of an old day, on the piano, filled with young pink roses. He heard laughter and whispering in the hallway. It wasn’t exactly clear to him what he must say or do. He felt his wound right now, a sort of general breakdown. The door he was looking toward--the direction the voices came from--didn’t open. Her step sounded from behind. He saw her first among the vines at the window, facing the porch. Her lips moved, her hand lifted, the door opened, but everything was stiller than one could imagine. ‘I would have known you--’ ‘Of course--’ ‘It’s probably because I saw you before--I mean before dark that night--’