"I didn't come to see David, Dick."

"I cannot think you want to see me, Elizabeth."

"I do, if you don't mind."

He stood aside then and let her pass him into the rear office.

But he was not fooled at all. Not he. He had been enough. He knew
why she had come, in the kindness of heart. (She was so little. Good
heavens, a man could crush her to nothing!) She had come because she was
sorry for him, and she had brought forgiveness. It was like her. It was
fine. It was damnable.

His voice hardened, for fear it might be soft.

"Is this a professional visit, or a Christmas call, Elizabeth? Or
perhaps I shouldn't call you that."

"A Christmas call?"

"You know what I mean. The day of peace. The day--what do you think I'm
made of, Elizabeth? To have you here, gentle and good and kind--"

He got up and stood over her, tall and almost threatening.

"You've been to church, and you've been thinking things over, I know. I
was there. I heard it all, peace on earth, goodwill to men. Bosh. Peace,
when there is no peace. Good will! I don't want your peace and good
will."

She looked up at him timidly.

"You don't want to be friends, then?"

"No. A thousand times, no," he said violently. Then, more gently: "I'm
making a fool of myself. I want your peace and good will, Elizabeth. God
knows I need them."