She had edged herself into the garden and held the door at closing-point. I could see the house no longer. Her head looked out through the slit as though it had no body. I was sick and angry--angry because of Ruthita. Anger restored my determination. They should not condemn me without a hearing; their morality was stucco-fronted--a cheap imitation of righteousness. I pushed roughly past Hetty like an insolent peddler, and left her bleating protests behind. In the hall I dropped my bags and entered my father’s study unannounced. He glanced up from under the hand with which his eyes were shaded. His mouth straightened. He went on with his writing, feigning that he had not heard me enter. I remembered the trick well--as a boy it had made punishment the more impressive. It was done for that purpose now; he had never accustomed himself to think of me as a grown man. I watched him. How lean, and threadbare, and overworked he looked! How he tyrannized over himself! The hair had grown thin about the temples; his eyes were weak, his forehead lined. He had disciplined joy out of his life. But there was something big about him--a stern forcefulness of character which came of long years of iron purpose. He had failed, but he would not acknowledge his failure. All these years his daily routine of drudgery had remained unchanged. Outside the spring was stirring, just as it had stirred in his children’s lives. But his windows were shut against the spring because he had to earn his daily bread. The anger I had felt turned to pity. He was so lonely in his strength. Had he been weaker, he would have been happier. “You did not want to see me?” He blotted his page carefully and laid aside his pen. “I had good reason.” His voice was cold and tired. “You can’t judge of that; you haven’t heard.” “I can conjecture.” “But I have at least the right to explain. You can’t conjecture the details that led up to it.” “These things are usually led up to by the same details. All I know is that any meeting between us now can only cause pain, and I cannot afford to be upset. You have your standards of honor; I have mine. Evidently they are divergent. You didn’t give me your confidence before you sailed; I don’t invite it now.” He had allowed me to remain standing, making me feel my intrusion on his privacy. I had always felt that in talking to him I was keeping him from his work. My mind went back to the fear with which I had entered his study in the old days. And this was the end of it. “You can never have cared much for me,” I threw out bitterly, “if you can break with me so lightly.” His pale face flushed; his distant manner broke down. “How should you know how much I cared?” “How should I know! All my life you’ve been silent and there were times----”