That, too, she reflected bitterly! Dick was in love. She had not watched him for that very thing for so long without being fairly sure now. She had caught, as simple David with his celibate heart could never have caught, the tone in Dick's voice when he mentioned the Wheelers. She had watched him for the past few months in church on Sunday mornings, and she knew that as she watched him, so he looked at Elizabeth. And David was so sure! So sure. The office door closed and Mrs. Morgan went out, a knitted scarf wrapping her ears against the wind, and following her exit came the slow ascent of David as he climbed the stairs to wash for dinner. She stopped rocking. “David!” she called sharply. He opened the door and came in, a bulky figure, still faintly aromatic of drugs, cheerful and serene. “D'you call me?” he inquired. “Yes. Shut the door and come in. I want to talk to you.” He closed the door and went to the hearth-rug. There was a photograph of Dick on the mantel, taken in his uniform, and he looked at it for a moment. Then he turned. “All right, my dear. Let's have it.” “Did Mrs. Morgan have anything to say?” He stared at her. “She usually has,” he said. “I never knew you considered it worth repeating. No. Nothing in particular.” The very fact that Mrs. Morgan had limited her inquiry to Minnie confirmed her suspicions. But somehow, face to face with David, she could not see his contentment turned to anxiety. “I want to talk to you about Dick.” “Yes?” “I think he's in love, David.” David's heavy body straightened, but his face remained serene. “We had to expect that, Lucy. Is it Elizabeth Wheeler, do you think?” “Yes.” For a moment there was silence. The canary in its cage hopped about, a beady inquisitive eye now on one, now on the other of them. “She's a good girl, Lucy.” “That's not the point, is it?” “Do you think she cares for him?” “I don't know. There's some talk of Wallie Sayre. He's there a good bit.” “Wallie Sayre!” snorted David. “He's never done a day's work in his life and never will.” He reflected on that with growing indignation. “He doesn't hold a candle to Dick. Of course, if the girl's a fool--” Hands thrust deep into his pockets David took a turn about the room. Lucy watched him. At last: “You're evading the real issue, David, aren't you?” “Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “I'd better talk to him. I think he's got an idea he shouldn't marry. That's nonsense.” “I don't mean that, exactly,” Lucy persisted. “I mean, won't he want a good many things cleared up before he marries? Isn't he likely to want to go back to Norada?” Some of the ruddy color left David's face. He stood still, staring at her and silent. “You know he meant to go three years ago, but the war came, and--” Her voice trailed off. She could not even now easily recall those days when Dick was drilling on the golf links, and that later period of separation. “If he does go back--” “Donaldson is dead,” David broke in, almost roughly.