"I think we might," said Desire. Her tone was admirably judicial but her thoughts were not.... If the Mary of the visit were no other than the Mary of the faun-eyed photograph, why then—

Why then, no wonder that Benis had lost interest in the great Book!



CHAPTER XXX

To give exhaustive reasons for the impulse which brought Miss Mary Davis to Bainbridge at this particular time would be to delve too deeply into the complex psychology of that lady. But we shall not be far wrong if we sum up the determining impulse in one word—curiosity.

The news of Benis Spence's unexpected marriage had been something of a shock to more than one of his friends. But especially so to Mary Davis. Upon a certain interesting list, which Miss Davis kept in her well-ordered mind, the name of this agreeable bachelor had been distinctly labelled "possible." To have a possibility snatched from under one's nose without warning is annoying, especially if the season in possibilities threatens to be poor. The war had sadly depleted Miss Davis' once lengthy list. And she, herself, was five years older. It would be interesting, and perhaps instructive, to see the young person from nowhere who had still further narrowed her personal territory.

"It does seem rather a shame," she confided to a select friend or two, "that clever men who have escaped the perils of early matrimony should in maturity turn back to the very thing which constituted that peril."

"You mean men like them young?" said a select friend with brutal candor.

"I mean they like them too young. In the case I'm thinking of, the girl is a mere child. And quite uncultured. What possibility of intellectual companionship could the most sanguine man expect?"

"None. But they don't want intellectual companionship." Another select friend spoke bitterly. "I used to think they did. It seemed reasonable. As the basis for a whole lifetime, it seemed the only possible thing. But what's the use of insisting on a theory, no matter how abstractly sound, if it is disproved in practice every day? Remember Bobby Wells? He is quite famous now; knows more about biology than any man on this side of the water. He married last week. His wife is a pretty little creature who thinks protoplasm another name for appendicitis."

There was a sympathetic pause.

"And biology was always such a fad of yours," sighed Mary thoughtfully. "Never mind! They are sure to be frightfully unhappy."

"No, they won't. That's it. That's the point I am making. They'll be as cozy as possible."

Miss Davis thought this point over after the select friend who made it had gone. She did not wish to believe that its implication was a true one. But, if it were, if youth, just youth, were the thing of power, then it were wise that she should realize it before it was too late. Her own share of the magic thing was swiftly passing.

From a drawer of her desk she took a recent letter from a Bainbridge correspondent and re-read the part referring to the Spence reception.

"Really, it was quite well done," she read. "Old Miss Campion has a 'flair' for the suitabilities, and now that so many are trying to be smart or bizarre, it is a relief to come back to the old pleasant suitable things—you know what I mean. And the old lady has an air. How she gets it, I don't know, for the dear Queen is her idea of style. Perhaps there is something in the 'aura' theory. If so, Miss Campion's aura is the very glass of fashion.

"And the bride! But I hear you are coming down, so you will see the bride for yourself. There was a silly rumor about her being part Indian. Well, if Indian blood can give one a skin like hers, I could do with an off-side ancestor myself! She is even younger than report predicted. But not sweet or coy (Heavens, how one wearies of that type!) And Benis Spence, as a bride-groom, has lost something of his 'moony' air. He is quite attractive in an odd way. All the same, I can't help feeling (and others agree with me) that there is something odd about that marriage. My dear, they do not act like married people. The girl is as cool as a princess (I suppose princesses are). And the professor's attitude is so—so casual. Even John Rogers' manner to the bride is more marked than the bridegroom's. But you know I never repeat gossip. It isn't kind. And any-way it may not be true that he drops in for tea nearly every day."

Miss Davis replaced the letter with a musing smile. And the next morning she called up on long distance. A visit to Bainbridge, she felt, might be quite stimulating....

Observe her, then, on the morning of her arrival having breakfast in bed. Breakfast in bed is always offered to travellers at the Spence home—a courtesy based upon the tradition of an age which travelled hard and seldom. Miss Davis quite approved of the custom. She had not neglected to bring "matinees" in which she looked most charming. Negligee became her. She openly envied Margot Asquith her bedroom receptions.

Young Mrs. Spence, inquiring with true western hospitality, whether the breakfast had been all that could be desired, was conscious of a pang, successfully repressed, at the sight of that matinee. She saw at once that she had never realized possibilities in this direction. Her night-gowns (even the new ones) were merely night-gowns and her kimonas were garments which could still be recognized under that name.

"It is rather a duck," said Mary, reading Desire's admiring glance. "Quite French, I think. But of course, as a bride, you will have oceans of lovely things. I adore trousseaux. Perhaps you will show me some of your pretties?" (The bride's gowns, she admitted, might be passable but what really tells the tale is the underneaths.)

"Oh, with pleasure." Desire's assent was instant and warm. "I shall love to let you see my things."

It was risky—but effective. Mary's desire to see the trousseau evaporated on the instant. No girl would be so eager to show things which were not worth showing. And Mary was no altruist to rejoice over other people's Paris follies.

After all, she really knew very little about Benis's wife. And you never can tell. She began to wish that she had brought down with her some very special glories—things she had decided not to waste on Bainbridge. Her young hostess had eyes which were coolly, almost humorously, critical. "Absurd in a girl who simply can't have any proper criteria!" thought Miss Davis crossly.

"When you are quite rested," said Desire kindly, "you will find us on the west lawn. The sun is never too hot there in the morning."

"Yes—I remember that." The faintest sigh disturbed the laces of Mary's matinee. Her faun-like eyes looked wistful. "But if you do not mind, I think I shall be really lazy—these colds do leave one so wretched."

Desire agreed that colds were annoying. She had not missed the sigh which accompanied Mary's memory of the west lawn and very naturally misread it. Mary's regretful decision to challenge no morning comparison in the sunlight on any lawn was interpreted as regret of a much more tender nature. Desire's eyes grew cold and dark with shadow as she left her charming visitor to her wistful rest.

That Mary Davis was the lady of her husband's one romance, she had no longer any doubt. Anyone, that is, any man, might love deeply and hopelessly a woman of such rare and subtle charm. Possessing youth in glorious measure herself, Desire naturally discounted her rival's lack of it. With her, the slight blurring of Mary's carefully tended "lines," the tired look around her eyes, the somewhat cold-creamy texture of her delicate skin, weighed nothing against the exquisite finish and fine sophistication which had been the gift of the added years.

In age, she thought, Mary and Benis would rank each other. They were also essentially of the same world. Neither had ever gazed through windows. Both had been free of life from its beginning. Love between them might well have been a fitting progression.

The one fact which did not fit in here was this—in the story as told by Benis the affair had been one of unreciprocated affection. This presupposed a blindness on the lady's part which Desire began increasingly to doubt. She had already reached the point when it seemed impossible that anyone should not admire what to her was entirely admirable. Even the explanation of a prior attachment (the "Someone Else" of the professor's story), did not carry conviction. Who else could there be—compared with Benis?

No. It looked, upon the face of it, as if there had been a mistake somewhere. Benis had despaired too soon!

This fateful thought had been crouching at the door of Desire's mind ever since Mary had ceased to be an abstraction. She had kept it out. She had refused to know that it was there. She had been happy in spite of it. But now, when its time was fully come, it made small work of her frail barriers. It blundered in, leering and triumphant.

Men have been mistaken before now. Men have turned aside in the very moment of victory. And Benis Spence was not a man who would beg or importune. How easily he might have taken for refusal what was, in effect, mere withdrawal. Had Mary retreated only that he might pursue? And had the Someone Else been No One Else at all?

If this were so, and it seemed at least possible, the retreating lady had been smartly punished. Serve her right—oh, serve her right a thousand times for having dared to trifle! Desire wasted no pity on her. But what of him? With merciless lucidity Desire's busy brain created the missing acts which might have brought the professor's tragedy of errors to a happy ending. It would have been so simple—if Benis had only waited. Even pursuit would not have been required of him. Mary, unpursued, would have come back; unasked, she might have offered. But Benis had not waited.

Desire saw all this in the time that it took her to go down-stairs. At the bottom of the stairs she faced its unescapable logic: if he were free now, he might be happy yet.

How blind they had both been! He to believe that love had passed; she to believe that love would never come. Desire paused with her hand upon the library door. He was there. She could hear him talking to Yorick. She had only to open the door ... but she did not open it. Yesterday the library had been her kingdom, the heart of her widening world. Now it was only a room in someone else's house. Yesterday she would have gone in swiftly—hiding her gladness in a little net of everyday words. But today she had no gladness and no words.



CHAPTER XXXI

Miss Davis had been in Bainbridge a week. Her cold was entirely better and her nerves, she said, much rested. "This is such a restful place," murmured Miss Davis, selecting her breakfast toast with care.

"I'm glad you find it so," said Aunt Caroline. "Though, with the club elections coming on next week—" she broke off to ask if Desire would have more coffee.

Desire would have no more, thanks. Miss Campion, looking over her spectacles, frowned faintly and took a second cup herself—an indulgence which showed that she had something on her mind. Her nephew, knowing this symptom, was not surprised when later she joined him on the side veranda. Being a prompt person she began at once.

"Benis," she said, "I have a feeling—I am not at all satisfied about Desire. If you know what is the matter with her I wish you would tell me. I am not curious. I expect no one's confidence, nor do I ask for it. But I have a right to object to mysteries, I think."

As Aunt Caroline spoke, she looked sternly at the smoke of the professor's after-breakfast cigarette, the blue haze of which temporarily clouded his expression. Benis took his time in answering.

"You think there is something the matter besides the heat?" he inquired mildly.

"Heat! It is only ordinary summer weather."

"But Desire is not used to ordinary summer, in Ontario."

"Nonsense. It can't be much cooler on the coast. Although I have heard people say that they felt quite chilly there. It isn't that."

"What is it, then?"

Not noticing that she was being asked to answer her own question, Aunt Caroline considered. Then, with a flash of shrewd insight, "Well," she said, "if there were any possible excuse for it, I should say that it is Mary Davis."

"My dear Aunt!"

"You asked me, Benis. And I have told you what I think. Desire has changed since Mary came. Before that she seemed happy. There was something about her—well, I admit I liked to look at her. And she seemed to love this place. Even that Yorick bird pleased her, a taste which I admit I could never understand. Now she looks around and sees nothing. The girl has some-thing on her mind, Benis. She's thinking."

"With some people thought is not fatal."

"I am serious, Benis."

"So am I."

"What I should like to know is—have you, by any chance, been flirting with Mary?"

"What?"

"Don't shout. You heard what I said perfectly. I do not wish to interfere. It is against my nature. But if you had been flirting with Mary, that might account for it. I don't believe Desire would understand. She might take it seriously. As for Mary—I am ashamed of her. I shall not invite her here again."

"This is nonsense, Aunt."

"Excuse me, Benis. The nonsense is on your side. I know what I am talking about, and I know Mary Davis. She is one of those women for whom a man obscures the landscape. She will flirt on her deathbed, or any-body else's deathbed, which is worse. Come now, be honest. She has been doing it, hasn't she?"

"Certainly not."

"I suppose you have to say that. I'll put it in another way. What is your opinion of Mary?"

"She is an interesting woman."

"You find her more interesting than you did upon her former visit?"

"I hardly remember her former visit. I never really knew her before."

"And you know her now?"

"She has honored me with a certain amount of confidence."

Aunt Caroline snorted. "I thought so. Well, she doesn't need to honor me with her confidence because I know her without it. Was she honoring you that way last night when you stayed out in the garden until mid-night?"

"We were talking, naturally."

"And—your wife?"

There was a moment's pause while the cigarette smoke grew bluer. "My wife," said Benis, "was very well occupied."

"You mean that when Dr. John saw how distrait and pale she was, he took her for a run in his car? Now admit, Benis, that you made it plain that you wished her to go."

"Did I?"

"Yes," significantly, "too plain. Mary saw it—and John. You are acting strangely, Benis. I don't like it, that's flat. Desire is too much with John. And you are too much with Mary. It is not a natural arrangement. And it is largely your fault. It is almost as if you were acting with some purpose. But I'll tell you this—whatever your purpose may be—you have no right to expose your wife to comment."

She had his full attention now. The cigarette haze drifted away.

"Comment?" slowly. "You mean that people—but of course people always do. I hadn't allowed for that. Which shows how impossible it is to think of everything. I'm sorry."

"I do not pretend to understand you, Benis. But then, I never did. Your private affairs are your own, also your motives. And I never meddle, as you know. I think though, that I may be permitted a straight question. Has your feeling toward Desire changed?"

"Neither changed nor likely to change."

Miss Campion's expression softened.

"Are you sure that she knows it?"

"I am not sure of anything with regard to Desire."

"Then you ought to be. Don't shilly-shally, Benis. It is a habit of yours. All of the Spences shilly-shally. Make certain that Desire is aware of your—er—affection. Mark my words—I have a feeling. She is fretting over Mary."

"I happen to know that she is not."

Small red flags began to fly from Miss Campion's prominent cheek-bones.

"We shall quarrel in a moment, Benis. You are pig-headed. Exactly as your father was, and without his common sense. I know you think me an interfering old maid. But I like Desire, and I won't have her made miserable. I want—"

"Hush—here she comes."

"Ill leave you then," in a sepulchral whisper. "And for goodness' sake, Benis, do something! ... Were you looking for me, my dear?" added Aunt Caroline innocently as Desire came slowly toward them. "Do not try to be energetic this morning. It is so very hot. Sit here. I'll send Olive out with something cool. I'd like you both to try the new raspberry vinegar."

Greatly pleased with her simple stratagem the good soul bustled away. Desire looked after her with a grateful smile.

"I believe Aunt Caroline likes me," she said with a note of faint surprise.

"Is that very wonderful?"

"Yes."

Benis looked at her quickly and looked away. She was certainly paler. She held her head as if its crown of hair were heavy.

"It does not seem wonderful to other people who also—like you."

Her eyes turned to him almost timidly. It hurt him to notice that the old frank openness of glance was gone. Good heavens! was the child afraid of him? Did she think that he blamed her? That he did not understand how helpless she was before her awakening womanhood? He forgot how difficult speech was in the overpowering impulse to reassure her.

"I wish you could be happy; my dear," he said. "You are so young. Can't you be a little patient? Can't you be content as things are—for a while?"

Even Spence, blinded as he was by the bitterness of his own struggle, noticed the strangeness of her look.

"You want things to go on—as they are?"

"Yes. For a time. We had better be quite sure. We do not want a second mistake."

"You see that there has been a mistake?"

"Can I help seeing it, Desire?"

"No, I suppose not.... And when you are sure?" Her voice was very low.

"When I—when we are both sure, I shall act. There are ways out. It ought not to be difficult."

"No, quite easy, I think. I hope it will not be long."

His mask of reasonable acquiescence slipped a little at the wistfulness of her voice.

"Don't speak like that!" he said sharply. "No man is worth it."

Desire smiled. It was such a sure, secret little smile, that it maddened him.

"You can't—you can't care like that!" he said in a low, furious tone. "You said you never could!"

"I do," said Desire.

It was the avowal which she had sworn she would never make. Yet she made it without shame. Love had taught Desire much since the day of the episode of the photograph. And one of its teachings had to do with the comparative insignificance of pride. Why should he not know that she loved him? Of what use a gift that is never given? Besides, as this leaden week had passed, she knew that, more than anything else, she wanted truth between them. Now, when he asked it of her, she gave him truth.

"It is breaking our bargain," she went on with a wavering smile. "But I was so sure! I cannot even blame myself. It must be possible to be quite sure and quite wrong at the same time."

"Yes. There is no blame, anywhere. I—I didn't think of what I was saying."

"Well, then—you will guess that it isn't exactly easy. But I will wait as you ask me. When you are quite sure—you will let me go?"

"Yes," he said.

Neither of them looked at the other.

Does Jove indeed laugh at lover's perjuries? Even more at their stupidities, perhaps!



CHAPTER XXXII

For they really were stupid! Looking on, we can see so plainly what they should have seen, and didn't.

If thoughts are things (and Professor Spence continues to argue that they are) a mistaken thought is quite as powerful a reality as the other kind. Only let it be conceived with sufficient force and nourished by continual attention and it will grow into a veritable highwayman of the mind—a thievish tyrant of one's mental roads, holding their more legitimate travellers at the stand and deliver.

Desire, usually so clearsighted, ought to have seen that the attentions of Benis to the too-sympathetic Mary were hollow at the core. But this, her mistaken Thought would by no means allow. Ceaselessly on the watch, it leapt upon every unprejudiced deduction and turned it to the strengthening of its own mistaken self. What might have seemed merely boredom on the professor's part was twisted by the Thought to appear an anguished effort after self-control. Any avoidance of Mary's society was attributed to fear rather than to indifference. And so on and so on.

Spence, too, a man learned in the byways of the mind, ought to have known that, to Desire, John was a refuge merely, and Mary the real lion in the way. But his mistaken Thought, born of a smile and a photograph, grew steadily stronger and waxed fat upon the everyday trivialities which should have slain it. So powerful had it become that, by the time of Desire's arrival on the veranda, it had closed every road of interpretation save its own.

Nor was John in more reasonable case. His mistaken Thought was different in action but equally successful in effect. Born of an insistent desire, and nursed by half fearful hope, it stood a beggar at the door of life, snatching from every passing circumstance the crumbs by which it lived. Did Desire smile—how eagerly John's famished Thought would claim it for his own. Did she frown—how quick it was to find some foreign cause for frowning. And, as Desire woke to love under his eyes, how ceaselessly it worked to add belief to hope. How plausibly it reasoned, how cleverly it justified! That Spence loved his wife, the Thought would not accept as possible. All John's actual knowledge of the depth and steadfastness of his friend's nature was pooh-poohed or ignored. Benis, dear old chap, cared nothing for women. Hadn't he always shunned them in his quiet way? And hadn't he, John, warned Benis, anyway? The Thought insisted upon the warning with virtuous emphasis. It pointed out that Benis had laughed at the warning. Even if—but we need not follow John's excursions further. They all led through devious ways to the old, old justification of everything in love and war.

As time went on, the thing which fed the mistaken thoughts of both Benis and John was the change in Desire herself. That she was increasingly unhappy was evident to both. And why should she be unhappy—unless?

To John Rogers, that summer remained the most distracting summer of his life. Desire should have seen this—would have seen it had her mind-roads not been closed by their own obsession. The probability is that she did not consciously think of John at all. He was there and he was kind. She saw nothing farther than that.

The relationship between the two men remained apparently the same and indeed it is likely that, in the main, their conception one of the other did not change. To Benis, John's virtues were still as real and admirable as ever. To John, Benis was still a bit of a mystery and a bit of a hero>. (There were war stories which John knew but had never dared to tell, lest vengeance befall him.) But, these basic things aside, there were new points of view. Seen as a possible mate for Desire, Benis found John most lamentably lacking. Seen in the same light, Benis to John was undesirable in the extreme. "If it could only be someone more subtle than John," thought Benis. And, "If only old Benis were a bit more stable," thought John. Both were insincere, since no possible combination of qualities would have satisfied either.

Of this fatally misled quartette, Mary Davis was perhaps the one most open to reason. And yet not altogether so, for the thought of Benis Spence as eternally escaped was not a welcome one. She realized now that she might have liked the elusive professor more than a little. They would have been, she thought, admirably suited. At the worst, neither would have bored the other. And the Spence home was quite possible—as a home for part of the year at least. It was certainly annoying that fate should have cut in so unexpectedly. And for what? Apparently for nothing but that a girl with grey, enigmatic eyes and close-shut lips should keep from Mary a position which she did not want herself. For Mary, captive of her Thought, was more than ready to believe that Desire's hidden preference was for John. She naturally could not grant her rival a share of her own discriminating taste in loving.

"I suppose," thought Mary, "it is her immaturity which makes her prefer the doctor person to one who so far outranks him. She admires sleek hair and a straight nose. The finer fascinations of Benis escape her."

Meanwhile she stayed on.

"I know I should come home," she wrote the most select of the select friends. "And I know dear Miss Campion thinks so! But the situation here is too absorbing. And, as my invitation was indefinite, I can hardly be accused of outstaying it. I can't be supposed to know that I'm not wanted. I justify myself by the knowledge that I am of some use to Benis. You know I can interest most men when I try, and this time my 'heart is in it'—like Sentimental Tommy. I am even teaching a perfectly dear parrot they have here to sing, 'Oh, What a Pal was Mary.' Will you run over to my rooms and send down that London smoke chiffon frock with the silver underslip? Stockings and slippers to match in a box in the bottom drawer. I am contemplating a moon-light mood and must have the accessories. One loses half the effect if one does not dress the part. Madam Enigma never dresses in character. Because she never assumes one. So dull to be always just oneself, don't you think? Even if one knew what one's real self is, which I am sure I do not.

"This girl annoys me. How she can be so simple and yet so complex I can't understand. I thought perhaps a dash of jealousy might be revealing. But she hasn't turned a hair. I have my emotions pretty well in hand myself but even if I didn't adore my husband, I'd see that no one else appropriated him. But as far as Madam Coolness is concerned it looks as if I might put her husband in my pocket and keep him there indefinitely.

"I told you in my last about the good-looking doctor. What she sees in him puzzles me. He is handsome but as dull as all the proverbs. Can't be original even in his love affairs—otherwise he would hardly select his best friend's bride—so bookish! Why doesn't someone fall in love with the wife of his enemy? It seems to have gone out since Romeo's time. (Now don't write and tell me that Juliet wasn't married.)

"Another thing which I find odd, is the attitude of Benis himself. He is quite alive, painfully so, to the drift of the thing. Yet he does nothing. And this is not in keeping with his character. He is the type of man who, in spite of an unassertive manner, holds what he has with no uncertain grasp. Why, then, does he let this one thing go? The logical deduction is that he knows that he never had it. All of which, being interpreted, means that things may happen here through the sheer inertia of other things. Almost every day I think, 'Something ought to be done.' But I know I shall never do it. I am not the novelist's villainess who arranges a compromising situation and produces the surprised husband from behind a door. Neither am I a peacemaker or an altruist. I am not selfish enough in one way nor un-selfish enough in another. (Probably that is why life has lost interest in my special case.) Even my emotions are hopelessly mixed. There are times when I find myself viciously hoping that Madam Composure will go the limit and that right quickly. And there are other times when I feel I should like to choke her into a proper realization of what she is risking. Not for her sake—I'm far too feminine for that—but because I hate to see her play with this man (whom I like myself) and get away with it."

It is worth while remembering the closing sentences of this letter. They explain, or partially explain, a certain future action on the part of the writer, which might otherwise seem out of keeping with her well defined attitude of "Mary first."



CHAPTER XXXIII

"There is one thing which I simply do not understand." Miss Davis dug the point of a destructive parasol into the well-kept gravel of the drive and allowed a glance of deep seriousness to drift from under the shadow of her hat. Unfortunately, her companion was not attending.

It was the day of Mrs. Burton Jones' garden party, the Bainbridge event for which Miss Davis was, presumably, staying over. Mary, in a new frock of sheerest grey and most diaphanous white, and a hat which lay like a breath of mist against the gold of her hair, had come down early. In the course of an observant career, she had learned that, in one respect at least, men are like worms. They are inclined to be early. Mary had often profited by this bit of wisdom, and was glad that so few other women seemed to realize its importance. One can do much with ten or fifteen uninterrupted minutes.

But today Mary had not done much. She had found Benis, as she expected, on the front steps. They had talked for quite ten minutes without an interruption—but also without any reason to deplore one.

This was failure. And Mary, whose love of the chase grew as the quarry proved shy, was beginning to be seriously annoyed with Benis. He might at least play up! Even now he was not looking at her, and he did not ask her what it was that she simply did not understand. Mary decided that he deserved something—a pin-prick at least.

"Why don't you get a car, Benis?" she asked inconsequently. "If you had one, Desire might ride in it some-times, instead of always in Dr. Rogers'. Can't you see that it's dangerous?"

"One has to take risks," said Spence plaintively. "John is careless. But he has never killed anyone yet."

"You're impossible, Benis."

"Yes, I know. But particularly impossible as a chauffeur. That's why I haven't a car. What would I do with a driver when I wasn't using him? Desire will have a car of her own as soon as she likes to try it. Aunt won't drive and I—don't."

This was the first approach to a personal remark the professor had made. No one was in sight yet and Mary began to hope again. Once more she tried the gently serious gaze.

"Why not?" she asked, not too eagerly.

Yorick, sunning himself by the door, gave vent to a goblin chuckle. "Oh, what a pal was M-Mary! Oh, what a pal—Nothing doing!" he finished with a shriek and began to flap his wings.

The professor laughed. "Yorick gets his lessons mixed," he said. "But isn't he a wonder? Did you ever know a bird who could learn so quickly?"

Mary did not want to talk about birds. "Do tell me why you dislike driving?" she asked with gentle insistence.

"Oh, I like it.-It's not that. I used to drive like Jehu, or John. Never had an accident. But when I came back from overseas I found I couldn't trust my nerve—no quick judgment, no instinctive reaction—all gone to pieces. Rather rotten."

With unerring intuition Mary knew this for a real confidence. Fortunately she was an expert with shy game.

"Quite rotten," she said soberly. He went on.

"It's little things like that that hit hard. Not to be One's own man in a crisis—d'y' see?"

Mary nodded.

"But it's only temporary," he continued more cheer-fully. "I'll try myself out one of these days. Only, of course, arranged tests are never real ones. The crisis must leap on one to be of any use. Some little time ago, when I was at the coast, an incident happened—a kind of unexpected emergency"—he paused thoughtfully as a sudden vision of a moon-lit room flashed before him—"I got through that all right," he added, "so I'm hopeful."

"How thrilling," said Mary. "Won't you tell me what it was?"

His eyes met hers with a placidity for which she could have shaken him.

"It wouldn't interest you," he said. "I hear Aunt coming at last."

Miss Campion's voice had indeed preceded her.

"Oh, there you are, Mary," she said with some acidity. "I told Desire you were sure to be down first."

"I try to be prompt," said Mary meekly. "I have been keeping Benis company until you were ready." She spoke to Miss Campion but her slightly mocking eyes watched for some change upon the face of her young hostess. Desire, as usual, was serene.

"Mary thinks we are all heathens not to have a car," said Benis. "When are you going to choose yours, Desire?"

"Not at all, I think," said Desire.

Men, even clever men, are like that. The professor had seen no possible sting in his idly spoken words. But the sore, hot spot, which now seemed ever present in Desire's heart, grew sorer and hotter. To owe a car to the reminder of another woman! Naturally, Desire could do very well without it.

"But don't you miss a car terribly?" asked Mary with kind concern.

"I cannot miss what I have never had."

"Oh, in the west, I suppose one does have horses still."

"There may be a few left, I think." Desire's slow smile crept out as memory brought the asthmatic "chug" of the "Tillicum." "My father and I used a launch almost exclusively." In spite of herself she could not resist a glance at the professor. His eyes met hers with a ghost of their old twinkle.

"A launch?" Mary's surprise was patent. "Did you run it yourself?"

"We had a Chinese engineer," said Desire demurely. "But I could manage it if necessary."

Further conversation upon modes of locomotion on the coast was cut off by the precipitate arrival of John who, coming up the drive in his best manner, narrowly escaped a triple fatality at the steps.

"You people are careless!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What do you mean by standing on the drive? Some-one might have been hurt! Anyone here like to get driven to the garden party?"

"Do doctors find time for garden parties in Bainbridge?" asked Mary in mock surprise.

"Healthiest place you ever saw!" declared Dr. John gloomily. "And anyway, this garden party is a prescription of mine. Naturally I am expected to take my own medicine. I said to Mrs. B. Jones, 'What you need, dear Mrs. Jones, is a little gentle excitement combined with fresh air, complete absence of mental strain and plenty of cooling nourishment.' Did you ever hear a garden party more delicately suggested? Desire, will you sit in front?"

"Husbands first," said Benis. "In the case of a head-on collision, I claim the post of honorable danger."

It was surely a natural and a harmless speech. But instantly the various mistaken thoughts of his hearers turned it to their will. Desire's eyes grew still more clouded under their lowered lids. "He does not dare to sit beside Mary," whispered her particular mental highwayman. "Oho, he is beginning to show human jealousy at last," thought Mary. "He has noticed that she likes to sit beside me," exulted John. Of them all, only Aunt Caroline was anywhere near the truth. "He has taken my warning to heart," thought she. "But then, I always knew I could manage men if I had a chance."

A garden party in Bainbridge is not exciting, in itself. In themselves, no garden parties are exciting. As mere garden parties they partake somewhat of the slow and awful calm of undisturbed nature. One could see the grass grow at a garden party, if so many people were not trampling on it. So it is possible that there were those in Mrs. Burton Jones' grounds that afternoon who, bringing no personal drama with them, had rather a dull time. For others it was a fateful day. There were psychic milestones on Mrs. Burton Jones' smooth lawn that afternoon.

It was there, for instance, that the youngest Miss Keith (the pretty one) decided to marry Jerry Clarkson, junior (and regretted it all her life). It was there that Mrs. Keene first suspected the new principal of the Collegiate Institute of Bolshevik tendencies. (He had said that, in his opinion, kings were bound to go.) And it was there that Miss Ellis spoke to Miss Sutherland for the first time in three years. (She asked her if she would have lemon or chocolate cake—a clear matter of social duty.) It was there also that Miss Mary Sophia Watkins, Dr. Rogers' capable nurse, decided finally that a longer stay in Bainbridge would be wasted time. It was the first time she had actually seen her admired doctor and the object of his supposed regard together, and a certain look which she surprised on Dr. John's face as his eyes followed Desire across the lawn, convinced her so thoroughly that, like a sensible girl, she packed up that night and went back to the city.

Perhaps it was that very look which also decided Spence. For decide he did. There was no excuse for waiting longer. He must "have it out" with John. Desire must be given her freedom. Of John's attitude he had small doubt. His infatuation for Desire had been plain from the beginning. Time had served only to centre and strengthen it. He could not in justice blame John. He didn't blame John. That is to say, he would not officially permit himself to blame John, though he knew very well that he did blame him. A sense of the rights of other people as opposed to one's own rights has been hardly gained by the Race, and is by no means firmly seated yet. Let primitive passions slip control for an instant and presto! good-bye to the rights of other people! The primitive man in Spence would not have argued the matter. Having obtained his mate by any means at all, it would have gone hard with anyone who, however justly, attempted to take her from him. Today, at Mrs. Burton-Jones' garden party, the acquired restraints of character seemed wearing thin. The professor decided that it might be advisable to go home.

Desire and Mary noticed his absence at about the same time. And both lost interest in the party with the suddenness of a light blown out.

"Things are moving," thought Mary with a thrill of triumph. But in spite of her triumph she was angry. It is not pleasant to have the power of one's rival so starkly revealed. Malice crept into her faun-like eyes as she looked across to where Desire sat, a composed young figure, listening with apparent interest to the biggest bore in Bainbridge. What right had she to hold a man's hot heart between her placid hands! Mary ground her parasol into Mrs. Burton-Jones' best sod and her small white teeth shut grindingly behind her lips.

Desire was trying to listen to the little man with the enlarged ego who attempted to entertain her. But she was very much aware of Mary and all her moods. "She is selfish. She will make him miserable," thought Desire. "But she will make him happy first. And, in any case, he must be free."

"Yes, Mrs. Spence," the little man beside her was saying, "a man like myself, however diffident, must be ready to do his full duty by the community in which he lives. That is why I feel I must accept the nomination for mayor of this town—if I am offered it. My friends say to me, 'Miller, you are a man, and we need a man. Bainbridge needs a man.' What am I to do under such circumstances? If there is no man—"

"You might try a woman," said Desire, suddenly losing patience. The garden party was stupid. The egotist was stupid. She was probably stupid too, because she knew that a few weeks ago she would have found both the party and the egotist entertaining. She would have been delighted to peep in at a window where every-thing was labelled "Big I." She would have enjoyed Mrs. Burton-Jones' windows immensely—but now, windows bored her. In the only window that mattered the blinds were down. Desire's life had narrowed as it broadened. It wasn't life that she wanted any more—it was the one thing which could have made life dear.

A great impatience of trivialities came upon her. She hardly heard the injured tones of the little man who had embarked upon a heated repudiation of a feminine mayoralty. It did not amuse her even when he proved logically that women could never be anything because they were always something else. Instead she looked to Dr. John for rescue, and Dr. John, most observant of knights, immediately rescued her.

"Did you see that?" asked Mrs. Keene (the same who discovered the Bolshevik principal). She touched Miss Davis significantly on the arm.

Mary, who had seen perfectly well, looked blank.

"Of course you are not one of us," went on Mrs. Keene. "So you can scarcely be expected.... Still, living in the same house ... and knowing the dear professor so well."

"Did you wish to speak to him? He has gone home, I think," said Mary, innocently. "I fancy he doesn't suffer garden parties gladly."

"No—such a pity! With a wife so young and, if I may say so, so different. One feels that she has not been brought up amongst us. So sad. I always say 'Let our young men marry at home.' So sensible. One knows where one is then, don't you think?"

Mary agreed that, in such a position, one might know where one was.

"And book writing," said Mrs. Keene, "so fatiguing! So liable to occupy one's attention—to the exclusion of other matters.... The dear professor.... So bound up in the marvels of the human brain!"

"Not brain, mind," corrected Mary gently. "The professor is a psychologist."

"Well, of course if you wish to separate them, in a scriptural sense. But what I mean is that such biological studies are dangerous. So absorbing. When one examines things through a microscope—"

"One doesn't—in psychology."

"Well, perhaps not so much as formerly, especially since vivisection is so looked down upon. But it is terribly absorbing, as I say. And one can hardly expect an absorbed man to see things. And yet—"

"What is it," asked Mary bluntly, "that you think Professor Spence ought to see?"

This was entirely too blunt for Mrs. Keene. She, in her turn, looked blank. What did Miss Davis mean? She was not aware that she had suggested the professor's seeing anything. Probably there was nothing at all to see. Young people have such latitude nowadays. She herself was not a gossip. She despised gossip. "What I always say," declared she, virtuously, "is 'do not hint thing's.' Say them right out and then we shall know where we are. Don't you think so?"

Mary agreed that, under these conditions also, one might be fairly sure of one's position in space. "Unless," she concluded maliciously, "there is anything in the Einstein theory."

This latter shot had the effect intended, for Mrs. Keene said hurriedly, "Oh, of course in that case—" and moved away.

"I'm going home, Mary," said Aunt Caroline, coming up. Aunt Caroline had had enough garden party. She had noticed both the rescue of Desire by John, and the conversation of Mary with Mrs. Keene—the "worst old gossip in Bainbridge."

Desire was quite ready to go. So was Mary. The centre of attraction for them both had shifted itself. John too, felt that he ought to turn up at the office. But all three ladies politely declined a lift home in his car.

"It is so hot," he pleaded.

"It is not hot," said Aunt Caroline.

Mary smiled mockingly and murmured something about the great distances of small towns. Desire said, "No, thank you, John," in her detached way—a way which drove him mad even while he adored it.

So the Burton-Jones garden party faded into history. But history-in-the-making caught up its effects and carried them on....

It was a lovely night. But indoors it was hot with the accumulated heat of the day. Instead of going to bed, Mary slipped out into the garden. It was fresher there, and she was restless. The front of the house lay in darkness, but, from the library window at the side, stretched a ribbon of light. Benis must be still at work. With slippers which made no sound upon the grass, Mary crossed over to the window and looked in.

What she saw there stung her already fretted soul to unreasoning anger, and for once the circumspect Miss Davis acted upon impulse undeterred by thought. Entering the house softly, she ran upstairs to the west room which she entered without knocking.

Desire, seated at the dressing table, turned in surprise. She was ready for bed, but lingered over the brushing of her hair. With another spasm of anger, Mary noticed the hair she brushed—hair long and lustrous and lifted in soft waves. A pink kimona lay across the back of her chair, a pretty thing—but not at all French.

"Put it on," said Mary, "and come here. I want to show you something."

Desire did not ask "What?" Nor did she keep Mary waiting. Pleasant or unpleasant, it was not Desire's way to delay revelation. Together the two girls hurried out into the dew-sweet garden. As they went, Mary spoke in gusty sentences.

"I don't care what you do." (She was almost sobbing in her anger.) "I don't understand you.... I don't want to.... But you're not going to get away with it ... that cool air of yours ... pretending not to see.... If you are human at all you'll see ... and remember all your life."

They were close to the library window now. Desire looked in.

She looked so long and stood so still that Mary had time to get back a little of her breath and something of her common sense. An instinct which her selfish life had pretty well buried began to stir.

"Come away," she whispered, "I shouldn't have ... it wasn't fair ... he would never forgive us if he knew we had seen him like this!"

Desire drew back instantly.

"No," she said. Her voice was toneless. Her face in the darkness gleamed wedge-shaped and unfamiliar between the falling waves of her hair.

"I'm sorry," said Mary sulkily. "But I thought you ought to know what you are doing. It takes a lot to break up a man like that."

"Yes," said Desire. "All the same I had no right—"

"You will have," said Desire evenly.

They were at her door now. She paused with her hand on the knob.

"I knew he cared," she said in the same level voice, "but I didn't know that he cared like that."

"You know now," said Mary. Her irritation was returning.

"Yes," said Desire. "Good-night."

She opened the door and went in.



CHAPTER XXXIV

It seems incredible and yet it is a fact that Bainbridge never knew that young Mrs. Spence had run away. Full credit for this must be given to Miss Caroline Campion, who never really believed it herself—a mental limitation which lent the necessary air of unemphasized truth to her statement that Desire had been summoned suddenly to her father.

Miss Campion had, in her own mind, built up an imaginary Dr. Farr in every way suited to be the father-in-law of a Spence. This creation she passed on to Bainbridge as Desire's father. "Such a fine old gentleman," she would say. "And so devoted to his only daughter. Quite a recluse, though, my nephew tells me. And not at all strong." This idea of delicacy, which Miss Campion had added to the picture from a sense of the fitness of things, proved useful now. An only daughter may be summoned to attend a delicate father at a moment's notice, without unduly straining credulity.

One feels almost sorry for Bainbridge. It would have enjoyed the truth so much!

"Is Desire going to have no breakfast at all?" asked Aunt Caroline, from behind the coffee-urn on the morning following the garden-party. It was an invariable custom of hers to pretend that her nephew was fully conversant with his wife's intentions.

"She may be tired," said Benis.

"No. She has been up some time. The door of her room was open when I came down."

"Then she is probably in the garden. I'll ask Olive to call her."

"Why not call her yourself? I have a feeling—"

The professor rose from his untasted coffee. When Aunt Caroline "had a feeling" it was useless to argue.

"Are you sleeping badly again, Benis?" asked Aunt Caroline. "Your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket."

"Nothing to bother about, Aunt." He stepped out quickly into the sunny garden. But Desire was not among the flowers, neither was she on the lawn nor in the shrubbery. A few moments' search proved that she was not out of doors at all. Benis returned to his coffee. He found it quite cold and no waiting Aunt Caroline to pour him another cup. "I wonder," he pondered idly, "why, when one really wants coffee, it is always cold."

Then he forgot about coffee suddenly and completely, for Aunt Caroline came in with the news that Desire was gone.

"Gone where?" asked Spence stupidly.

"That," said Aunt Caroline, "she leaves you to inform me."

With the feeling of being someone else and acting under compulsion he took the few written lines which she held out to him. "Dear Aunt Caroline," he read, "Benis will tell you why I am going. But I cannot go without thanking you. I'll never forget how good you have been—Desire."

"I had a feeling," said Aunt Caroline with mournful triumph. "It never deceives me, never! As I passed our dear girl's room this morning, I said, 'She is not there'—and she wasn't!"

"I think you mentioned that the door was open."

"That has nothing to do with it. I—"

"Where did you find this note?"

"On her dressing table. When you went into the gar-den, I went upstairs. I had a feeling—"

"Was there nothing else? No note for me?"

"No," in surprise. "She says you know all about it. Don't you?"

"Something, not all."

Aunt Caroline was, upon occasion, quite capable of meeting a crisis. Remembering the neglected coffee, she poured a cup for each of them.

"Here," said she, "drink this. You look as if you needed it. I must say, Benis, that you don't act as if you knew anything, but if you do, you'd better tell me. Where is Desire?"

"I don't know."

"Umph! Then what you do know won't help us to find her. Finding her is the first thing. I wonder," thoughtfully, "if she told John?"

A wintry smile passed over the professor's lips.

"I shall ask him," he said.

Aunt Caroline proceeded with her own deducing. "There is no one else she could have told," she reasoned. "She did not tell you. She did not tell me. Naturally, she would not tell Mary. And a girl nearly always tells somebody. So it must be John. I hope you are sufficiently ashamed of yourself, Benis? I told you Desire wouldn't understand your attentions to Mary. Though I admit I did not dream she would take them quite so seriously. I don't envy you your explanations."

"Aunt—"

"Wait a moment, Benis. On second thought, if I were you I would not explain at all. Simply tell her she is mistaken and stick to that. She may believe you. Promise her that you will never see Mary again—and you won't" (grimly) "if I have anything to say about it. Desire will come around. I have a feeling—"

"My dear Aunt!"

"Let me proceed, Benis. I have a feeling that she will forgive you—once. But let this be a lesson. Desire is not a girl who will forgive twice."

"You are all wrong, Aunt," with weary patience. "But it doesn't matter. Say nothing about this. I am going to see John."

"Not before you drink that coffee."

Benis obediently drank. Hurry would not mend what had happened.

"She has taken her travelling coat and hat," pursued Aunt Caroline. "Her train slippers, that taupe jersey-cloth suit, some fresh blouses, her dressing case, her night things and your photo off the dressing table."

Benis smiled, a wry smile, and pushed back his cup.

"You don't look fit to go anywhere," said Aunt Caroline irritably. "Why can't you call John on the 'phone?"

"That would be quite modern," said Benis. "But—I think I'll see him. I shan't be long."

It never once occurred to the professor, you will notice, that he might find John vanished also. His obsessing thought had not been able to change his essential knowledge of either Desire or John. If Desire had gone, she had gone because she could not stay. But she had gone alone. Just what determining thing had happened to make her flight imperative, Benis could not guess. But he would not have been human if he had not blamed the other man. "The fool has bungled it!" he thought. "Lost control of his precious feelings, perhaps—broken through—said something—frightened her." We may be sure that he cursed John in his heart very completely.

But when he entered John's office and saw John he began to doubt even this. There was no guilt on the doctor's face—no sign of apprehension or regret, no tremor of knowledge. An angry-eyed young man looked up from a letter he was reading with nothing more serious than injured wonder in his gaze.

"Can you beat it?" asked John disgustedly, waving the letter. "Aren't women the limit? Here's this one going off without a word, or an excuse, or anything. Just gone! And a silly note thrown on my desk. I tell you women have absolutely no sense of business obligation—positively not!"

Spence restrained himself.

"You are speaking of—?"

"That nurse of mine, Miss Watkins. Never a word about leaving yesterday, and today vanished—vamoosed—simply non est! Look at what she says.—"

Spence pushed the letter aside.

"There is something more important than that, John," he said quietly, "Desire has left me."

The two men stared at each other. Spence was the first to speak.

"There is no doubt about it. She is gone. She has not told us where. I see that you do not know."

John shook his head.

"There may be a note for you in the morning's mail." Benis was coldly brief. "I must know where she is. If you can help me, let me know." He turned to the door.

With difficulty John found his voice.

"I knew nothing of this, Benis."

"I realize that," dryly. "But you may be responsible for it. She had no idea of leaving yesterday."

"Benis, I swear—"

"It is not necessary. Besides," bitterly, "you could afford to be patient. You felt fairly—sure, didn't you?"

"Sure! No, I—"

"You mean you merely hoped?"

"Oh—damn!"

"Quite so. There is nothing to say. Not being a sentimentalist, I shan't pretend to love you, John. But I gambled and I've lost. I have always admired a good loser."



CHAPTER XXXV

Upon reaching home Benis found Aunt Caroline waiting for him just inside the outer gate.

"I thought," she explained, "that we might talk while strolling up the drive. Then Olive would not overhear."

The professor had quite neglected to consider Olive.

"I have told Olive," went on Aunt Caroline, "that Mrs. Spence had received news of her father which was far from satisfactory and that she had left for Vancouver by the early morning train. The morning train is the only one she could have left by, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then that's all right. I also let Olive know, indirectly, that you were remaining behind to attend to a few matters. After which you would follow."

Admiration for this generalship pierced even the deep depression of the professor.

"Does John know where she is?" pursued Aunt Caroline.

"No."

"Then she has gone home to her father. She said something the other day which puzzled me. I can't remember just what it was but she seemed to have some fatalistic idea, about her old life having a hold upon her which she couldn't shake off. Pure morbidity, as I pointed out. But she has gone back. I have a feeling that she has."

"You may be right, Aunt. It will be easy to find out. If I can make the necessary inquiries without arousing gossip. There was nothing in the mail—for me?"

"No. The man has just been. But there is something for Desire, an odd looking package done up in foreign paper. I have it here."

Spence took from her hand a slim, yellowish packet, directed in the crabbed writing of Li Ho.

"I can't make out whether it is 'Hon. Mrs. Professor Spence' or whether the 'Mrs.' is 'Mr.' Perhaps you had better open it, Benis."

"Perhaps, later." Spence slipped the packet into his pocket. "It 'can't have anything to do with our present problem.... I must make some telephone inquiries. But if Desire has gone, Aunt, we may as well face facts. She does not want me to follow her."

"Doesn't she?" Aunt Caroline surveyed him with a pitying smile. "How stupid men are! But go along to the library. You've had no decent breakfast. I'll send you in something to eat. As for Bainbridge—leave that to me." ...

How curiously does a room change with the changing mind of its occupant. Benis Spence had known his library in many moods. It had been a refuge; it had been a prison; it had been a place of dreams. He had liked to fancy that something of himself stayed there—something which met him, warm and welcoming, when he came in at the door. He had liked to play that the room had a soul. And, after he had brought Desire home, the idea had grown until he had seemed to feel an actual presence in its cool seclusion. But if presence there had been, it was gone now. The place was empty. The air hung dull and lifeless. The chairs stood stiff against the wall, the watching books had no greeting. Only Yorick swung and flapped in his cage, his throat full of mutterings.

It is all very well to be a good loser. But loss is bitter. Here was loss, stark and staring.

Spence walked over to the neatly tidied desk and there, for an instant, the cold finger lifted from his heart. A letter was lying on the clean blotter—she had not gone without a word, then! She had slipped in here to say good-bye.... A very little is much to him who has nothing.

The letter was brief. Only a few words written hurriedly with a spluttering pen:

"I am going, Ben-is. I think we are both sure now. But please—please do not pity me. Love is too big for pity. You have given me so much, give me this one thing more—the understanding that can believe me when I say that I, too, am glad to give.

"Desire."

Benis laid the letter softly down upon the ordered desk. No, he need not pity her. She had had the courage to let little things go. She, who had demanded so royally of life, now made no outcry that the price was high. Well, ... it need not be so high, perhaps. He would make it as easy as might be.

The parrot was trying to attract him with his usual goblin croaks. Benis rubbed its bent, green head.

"You'll miss her, too, old chap," he said, adding angrily, "dashed sentimentality!"

The sound of his own voice steadied him. He must be careful. Above all, he must not sink into self-pity. He must go back to his work. It had meant everything to him once. It must mean everything to him again. If he were a man at all he must fight through this inertia. Life had tumbled him out of his shell, played with him for an hour, and now would tumble him back again—no, by Jove, he refused to be tumbled back! He would fight through. He would come out somewhere, some-time.

It occurred to him that he ought to be thankful that Desire at least was going to be happy. But he did not feel glad. He was not even sure that she was going to be happy. Something kept stubbornly insisting that she would have been much happier with him. Quite with-out prejudice, had they not been extraordinarily well suited? He put the question up to fate. The hardest thing about the whole hard matter was the insistent feeling that a second mistake had been made. John and Desire—his mind refused to see any fitness in the mating. Yet this very perversity of love was something which he had long recognized with the complacence of assured psychology.

He heard Mary's voice in the hall. He had forgotten Mary. He hoped she would not tap upon the library door—as she sometimes did. No, thank heaven, she had gone upstairs! That was an odd idea of Aunt Caroline's. If he had felt like smiling he would have smiled at it. Desire jealous of Mary? Ridiculous....

"Here comes old Bones," said Yorick conversationally.

The professor started. It was a phrase he had him-self taught the bird during that time of illness when John's visit had been the bright spot in long dull days. It had amused them both that the parrot seldom made a mistake, seeming to know, long before his master, when the doctor was near.

But today? Surely Yorick was wrong today. John would not come today. Would never come again—but did anyone save John race up the drive in that abandoned manner? Benis frowned. He did not want to see John. He would not see him! But as he went to leave the library by one door John threw open the other and stood for an instant blinded by the comparative dimness within.

"Where are you, Benis?"

"Here."

Spence closed the door. His brief anger was swallowed up in something else. Never, even in France, had he seen John look like this.

"We're a precious pair of dupes!" began John in a high voice and without preliminaries. "Prize idiots—imbeciles!"

"Very likely," said Benis. "But you're not talking to New York."

He made no move to take the paper which John held out in a shaking hand.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked sternly.

"What's the matter with me? Oh, nothing. What's the matter with all of us? Crazy—that's all! Here—read it! It's from Desire. Must have posted it last night."

Spence put the letter aside.

"If you have news, you had better tell it. That is if you can talk in an ordinary voice."

John laughed harshly. "My voice is all right. Not so dashed cool as yours. Read it!"

Spence took the sheet held out to him; but he had no wish to> read Desire's words to John.

"If it is a private letter—" he began.

"Oh, don't be a bigger fool than you have been! Unless," with sudden suspicion, "you've known all along? Perhaps you have. Even you could hardly have been so completely duped."

"If you will tell me what you are talking about—"

"Read it. It is plain enough."

The professor slowly opened the folded sheet. It was a longer note than the one she had left for him.

"Dear John," he read, "if I I'd known yesterday that I would leave so soon I could have said good-bye. But my decision was made suddenly. I think you must have seen how it is with Benis and Mary and I can't go without telling you that I knew about it from the first. I don't want you to blame Benis. He told me about it before we were married, and I took the risk with my eyes open. How could he, or I, have guessed that he had given up hope too soon?—and anyway, it wasn't in the bargain that I should love him.—It just happened.—He is desperately unhappy. Help him if you can.—Your affectionate Desire."

"My affectionate Desire!" mocked John, still in that high, strained voice which now was perilously near a sob. "That—that is what I was to her, a convenient friend! You—you had it all. And let it go, for the sake of that blond-haired, deer-eyed, fashion plate—"

"That's enough! You are not an hysterical girl. Sit down.... I can't understand this, John. I thought—"

The two men looked at each other, a long look in which distrust at least was faced and ended. The excited flush, died out of John's cheek. He looked weary and shame-faced.

"I thought she loved you," said Spence simply.

The doctor's eyes fell. It was his honest admission that he, too, had thought this possible.

"Even now," went on the professor haltingly, "I can-not believe ... it doesn't seem possible ... me? ... John, does the letter mean that Desire loves me?"

John Rogers nodded, turning away.

Silence fell between them.

"What will you do—about the other?" asked the doctor presently.

"What other? There is no other. I loved Desire from the very first night I saw her. I didn't know it, then. It was all new. And," with a bitter smile, "so different from what one expects. Mary was never any-thing but the figure of straw I told you of. I thought," naively, "that Desire had forgotten Mary."

"Did you?" said John. "Why man, the woman doesn't live who would forget! And Miss Davis filled the bill to the last item—even the name 'Mary'."

"Oh what a pal was M-Mary!" croaked Yorick obligingly.

"The bird, too!" said John. "Everyone doing his little best to sustain the illusion—even, if I am any judge, the lady herself."

But Benis Spence had never wasted time upon the lady herself. And he did not begin now. With a face which had suddenly become years younger he was searching frantically in his desk for the transcontinental time-table.



CHAPTER XXXVI

The train crawled.

Although it was a fast express whose speed might well provoke the admiration of travellers, in one traveller it provoked nothing save grim endurance. Beside the consuming impatience of Benis Hamilton Spence, its best effort was a little thing. When it slowed, he fidgeted, when it stopped he fumed. He wanted to get out and push it.

Five days—four—three—two—a day and a half—the vastness of the spaces over which it must carry him grew endless as his mind continually tried to span them. He felt a distinct grievance that any country should be so wide.

"Making good time!" said a genial person, travelling in the tobacco trade. The professor eyed him with suspicion, as a man deranged by optimism.

The train crawled.

Spence removed his eyes from the passing landscape and tried to forget how slowly it was passing. He saw himself at the end of his journey. He saw Desire. He saw a grudging moment, or second perhaps, devoted to explanation. And then—How happy they were going to be! (If the train would only forget to stop at stations it might get somewhere.) How wonderful it would be to feel the empty world grow full again! To raise one's eyes, just casually, and to see—Desire. To speak, in just one's ordinary voice, and to know she heard. To stretch out one's hand and feel that she was there. (What were they doing now? Putting on more cars? Outrageous!) He would even write that book presently, when he got around to it. (When one felt sure one could write.) But first they would go away, just he and she, east of the sun and west of the moon. They would sit together somewhere, as they used to sit on the sun-warmed grass at Friendly Bay, and say nothing at all.... How nearly they had missed it ... but it would be all right now. Love, whom they had both denied, had both given and forgiven. It would be all right, it must be all right, now! (But how the train crawled.)

Poor John, poor old Bones! What a blow it had been for him. Although he should certainly have had more sense than to fancy—Well, of course, a man can fancy anything it he wants it badly enough. Spence was honestly sorry for John—that is, he would be when he had time to consider John's case. But John, too, would be all right presently. (Why under heaven do trains need to wait ten minutes while silly people walk on platforms without hats?) John would marry a nice girl. Not a girl like Desire—not that type of girl at all. Someone quite different, but nice. A fair girl, like that nurse he had had in his office. John might be very happy with a wife like that ...

* * * * *

It was not until the fourth night out that the professor remembered the packet from Li Ho. It had loomed so small among the events of that day fof revelations that he had completely forgotten it. He did not even remember putting it in his pocket—but there it was, still unopened, and promising some slight distraction from the wearying contemplation of the crawling train. It would shut out, too, the annoyance of the tobacco traveller, smoking with an offensive leisureliness, and declaring, in defiance of all feeling, that they were "Sharp on time and going some!"

With a reviving interest in something outside the time-table, Spence cut the string and opened the yellow packet. A small note-book fell out and a letter—two letters, and one of them in the unmistakable writing of Li Ho him-self. This latter, the professor opened first.

"Honorable Spence and Esteemed Professor, dear Sir," wrote Li Ho. "Permit felicity to include book belong departed parent of valued wife. Deceased lady write as per day. Li Ho extract and think proper missy to know. Honorable Boss head much loony. Secure that missy remain removed if desiring safety. Belong much danger here since married as per also enclosed. Exalted self be insignificantly warned by person of no intelligence, Li Ho."

Farther down, in a corner of the sheet was this sentence:

"Permit to notably add that respected lady departed life Jan. 14."

Li Ho had certainly surpassed himself. The bewildered professor forgot about the time-table entirely. What Chinese meaning lay behind this jumble of dictionary words? That they were not used at haphazard Spence knew. Li Ho had some distinct meaning to convey—had indeed already conveyed it in the one outstanding word "danger." For an instant the professor's mind sickened with that weakness which had been his dreadful legacy of war. But it passed immediately. Something stronger, deeper in, took quiet command. Desire was in danger! Shock has a way at times of giving back what shock has taken.—Spence became his own man once more—cool, ready.

With infinite care he went over the Chinaman's disjointed sentences. They had been written under stress.

That much presented no difficulty. Li Ho, the imperturbable, had permitted himself a fit of nerves ... Something must have happened. Something new. Something which threatened a danger not sufficiently emphasized before. In his former letter Li Ho had indeed intimated that a return was not desirable, but it had been an intimation based on general principles only. This was different. This had all the marks of urgent warning. "No more safe being married as per inclosed." This cryptic remark might mean that further enlightenment was to be sought in the enclosures.

Spence picked up the second letter. It was addressed to Dr. Herbert Farr at Vancouver, and was merely a formal notice from a firm of English solicitors—post-marked London—a well-known firm, probably, from the address on their letterhead.

"Dr. Herbert Farr, Vancouver, B. C.

Dear Sir:

As executors in the estate of Mrs. Henry Strangeways we beg to inform you that the allowance paid to you for the maintenance of Miss Desire Farr is hereby discontinued. This action is taken under the terms of our late clients will,—whereby such allowance ceases upon the marriage of the said Desire Farr or her voluntary removal from your roof and care.

Obediently yours, Hervey & Ellis."

The professor whistled. Here was enlightenment indeed! A very sufficient explanation of the old man's grim determination to block any self-dependence on Desire's part which would mean "removal from" his "care." Here was someone paying a steady (and perhaps a fat) allowance for the young girl's maintenance—someone of whom she herself had certainly never heard and of whose bounty she remained completely ignorant. It was easy enough now to follow Li Ho's reasoning. If it was for this allowance, and this alone, that the old doctor had kept Desire with him, long after her presence had become a matter of indifference or even of distaste, the ending of the allowance meant also the ending of his tolerance. "No more safe, being married." The difference, in Li Ho's opinion, was all the difference between comparative safety and real danger. Money! As long as Desire had meant money there had been an instinct in the old scoundrel which, even in his moon-devil fits, had protected the goose which laid the golden eggs. But now—now this inhibition was removed, Desire, no longer valuable, was no longer safeguarded. And who could tell what added grudge of rage and vengeance might be darkly harbored in the depths of that crafty and unbalanced mind?

And Desire, unwarned, was even now almost within the madman's reach.... Spence sternly refused to think of this ... there was time yet ... plenty of time.... The thing to do was to keep cool ... steady now!

"Kind of pretty, going through these here mountains by moonlight," observed the tobacco traveller, inclined to be genial even under difficulties. "She'll be full tomorrow night. Queer thing that them there prohibitionists can't keep the moon from getting full!" He laughed in hearty appreciation of his own cleverness.

The professor, a polite man, tried to smile. And then, suddenly, the meaning of what had been said came home to him.

Tomorrow night would be full moon!

He had forgotten about the moon.

"Queer cuss," thought the travelling man. "Stares at you polite enough but never says anything. No conversation. Just about as lively as an undertaker."

But if Benis had forgotten to remove his eyes from the travelling man, he did not know it. He did not see him. He saw nothing but moonlight—moonlight across an uncovered floor and the white dimness of a bed in the shadow! ... But he must keep cool ... was there time to stop Desire with a telegram? She was only a day ahead ... no—he was just too late for that. He knew the time-table by heart. Her train was already in ... impossible to reach her now!

Fear having reached its limit, his mind swung slowly back to reason.... There was, he told himself, no occasion for panic. Li Ho might have exaggerated. Besides, a danger known is almost a danger met And Li Ho knew. Li Ho would be there. When, Desire came he would guard her.... A few hours only ... until he could get to her.... She was safe for tonight at least. She would not attempt to cross the Inlet, until the morning. She would have to hire a launch—a thing no woman would attempt to do at that hour of night. She was in no hurry. She would stay somewhere in the city and get herself taken to Farr's Landing in the morning.... Through the day, too, she would be safe ... and, to-morrow night, he, Benis, would be there.... But not until late ... not until after the moon ... better not think of the moon ... think of Li Ho ... Li Ho would surely watch ...

He lay in his berth and told himself this over and over. The train swung on. The cool, high air of the mountains crept through the screened window. They were swinging through a land of awful and gigantic beauty. The white moon turned the snow peaks into glittering fountains from which pure light cascaded down, down into the blackness at their base ... one more morning ... one more day ... Vancouver at night ... a launch ... Desire!

Meanwhile one must keep steady. The professor drew from its yellow wrapping the little note-book which had been the second of Li Ho's enclosures. It had belonged, if Li Ho's information were correct, to Desire's mother—a diary, probably. "Deceased lady write as per day." Spence hesitated. It was Desire's property. He felt a delicacy in examining it. But so many mistakes had already been made through want of knowledge, he dared not risk another one. And Li Ho had probably other than sentimental reasons for sending the book.

He shut out the mountains and the moonlight, and clicking on the berth-light, turned the dog-eared pages reverently. Only a few were written upon. It was a diary, as he had guessed, or rather brief bits of one. The writing was small but very clear in spite of the fading ink. The entries began abruptly. It was plain that there had been another book of which this was a continuation.

The first date was November 1st—no year given.

"It is raining. The Indians say the winter will be very wet. Desire plays in the rain and thrives. She is a lovely child, high-spirited—not like me."

"November 10th—He was worse this month. I think he gets steadily a little worse. I dare not say what I think. He would say that I had fancies. No one else sees anything save harmless eccentricity,—except perhaps Li Ho. But I am terrified.

"December 7th—I tried once more to get away. He found me quickly. It isn't easy for a woman with a child to hide—without money. For myself I can stand it—my own fault! But—my little girl!

"December 15th—I have been ill. Such a terrible experience. My one thought was the dread of dying. I must live. I cannot leave Desire—here.

"December 20th—He bought Desire new shoes and a frock today. It is strange, but he seems to take a certain care of her. Why? I do not know. I have wondered about his motives until I fancy things. What motive could he have ... except that maybe he is not all evil? Maybe be cares for the child. She is so sweet—No. I must not deceive myself. Whatever his reason is, I know that it is not that.

"January 9th—A strange thing happened today. I found a torn envelope bearing the name of Harry's English lawyers. I have seen the same kind of envelope in Harry's hands more than once. They used to send him his remittance, I think. What can this man have to do with English lawyers? I am frightened. But for once I am more angry than afraid. I must watch. If he has dared to write to Harry's people—"

The writing of the next entry had lost its clearness. It was almost illegible.

"January 13th—How could he! How could he sink so low! I have seen the lawyer's letter. He has taken money. From Harry's mother—for Desire. And this began within a month of our marriage. It shames me so that I cannot live. Yet I must live. I can't leave the child. But I can stop this hateful traffic in a dead man's honor. I will write myself to England."

This was the last fragment. Spence looked again at the almost erased date—January 13th. He felt the sweat on his forehead for, beside that date, the unexplained postscript of Li Ho's letter took on a ghastly significance.

"Respected lady depart life on January 14th."

She had not lived to write to England!



CHAPTER XXXVII

It seemed to Benis Spence afterward that during that last day, while the train plunged steadily down to sea level, he passed every boundary ever set for the patience of man. It was a lovely, sparkling day. The rivers leaped and danced in sunshine. Long shadows swept like beating wings along the mountain sides. The air blew cool and sweet upon his lips. But for once he was deaf and blind and heedless of it all. He thought only of the night—of the night and the moon.

It came at last—a night as lovely as the day. Benis sat with his hand upon his watch. They were running sharp on time. There could be nothing to delay them now—barring an accident. Instantly his mind created an accident, providing all the ghastly details. He saw himself helpless, pinned down, while the full moon climbed and sailed across the skies....

But there was no accident. A cheery bustle soon began in the car. Suitcases were lifted up, unstrapped and strapped again. Women took their hats from the big paper bags which hung like balloons between the windows. There was a general shaking and fixing and sorting of possessions. Only the porter remained serene. He knew exactly how long it would take him to brush his car and did not believe in beginning too soon. Benis kept his eye on the porter. He stirred at last.

"Bresh yo' coat, Suh?"

The professor allowed himself to be brushed and even proffered the usual tip, so powerful is the push of habit. In the narrow corridor by the door he waited politely while the lady who wouldn't trust her suitcase to the porter got stuck sideways and had to be pried out. But when once his foot descended upon the station platform, he was a man again. The killing inaction was over.

With the quiet speed of one who knows that hurry defeats haste, he set about materializing the plans which he had made upon the train. And circumstance, repentant of former caprice, seemed willing to serve. The very first taxi-man he questioned was an intelligent fellow who knew more about Vancouver than its various hotels. A launch? Yes, he knew where a launch might be hired, also a man who could run it. Provided, of course—

Spence produced an inspiring roll of bills. The taxi-man grinned.

"Sure, if you've got the oof it's easy enough," he assured him. "Wake up the whole town and charter a steamer if you don't care what they soak you." He considered a moment. "'Tisn't a dope job, is it?"

Spence looked blank.

"What I mean to say is, what kind of man do you want?"

"Any man who will take me where I want to go."

The taxi-man nodded. "All right. That's easy."

In less time than even to the professor seemed possible the required boat-man was produced and bargained with. That is to say he was requested to mention his terms and produce his launch, both of which he did without hesitancy. And again circumstance was kind.

"If it's Farr's Landing you want," said the boat-man, leading a precarious way down a dark wharf, "I guess you've come to the right party. 'Taint a place many folks know. But I ran in there once to borrow some gas. Queer gink that there Chinaman! Anyone know you're coming? Anyone likely to show a light or anything?"

The professor said that his visit was unexpected. They would have to manage without a light.

The boat-man feared that, in that case, the terms might "run to" a bit more. But, upon receiving a wink from the taxi-man, did not waste time in stating how far they might run, but devoted himself to the encouragement of a cold engine and the business of getting under way.

Once more Spence was reduced to passive waiting. But the taste of the salt and the smell of it brought back the picture of Desire as he had seen her first—strong, self-confident. He had thought these qualities ungirlish at the time; now he thanked God for the memory of them.

It had been dark enough when they left the wharf but soon a soft brightness grew.

"Here she comes!" said his pilot with satisfaction. "Some moon, ain't she?"

"Hurry!" There was an urge in the professor's voice which fitted in but poorly with the magic of the night. The boat-man felt it and wondered. He tried a little conversation.

"Know the old Doc. well?" he inquired. "Queer old duck, eh? And that Li Ho is about the most Chinky Chinaman I ever seen. Come to think of it, I never paid him back that gas I borrowed."

"Hasn't he been across lately?" asked Spence, controlling his voice.

"Haven't seen him. But then 'tisn't as if I was out looking for him. Used to be a right pretty girl come over sometimes, the old Doc's daughter. Hasn't been around for a long time. Maybe you're a relative or some-thing?"

"See here," said Spence. "It's on account of the young lady that I am going there tonight. I have reason to fear that she may be in danger."

"That so?" The boat-man's comfortably slouched shoulders squared. He leaned over and did something to his engine. "In that case we'll take a chance or two. Hold tight, we're bucking the tide-rip. Lucky we've got the moon!"

Yes, they had the moon! With growing despair the professor watched her white loveliness drag a slipping mantle over the dark water. The same light must lie upon the clearing on the mountain ... where was Li Ho? Was he awake—and watching? Had he warned the girl? Or was she sleeping, weary with the journey, while only one frail old Chinaman stood between her and a terror too grim to guess ...

A long interval ... the sailing moon ... the swish of parting water as the launch cut through ...

"Must be thereabouts now," said the boat-man suddenly. "I'll slow her down. Keep your eye skinned for the landing."

A period of endless waiting, while the launch crept cautiously along the rocky shore—then a darker shadow in the shadows and the boat-man's excited "Got it!" The launch slipped neatly in beside the float.

"Want any help?" asked the boat-man curiously as his passenger sprang from the moving launch.

Spence did not hear him. He was already across the sodden planks. Only the up-trail now lay between him and the end—or the beginning. The shadows of the trees stretched waving arms. He felt strong as steel, light as air as he sprang up the wooded path....

It was just as he had pictured it—the cottage in its square of silver ... the sailing moon!

But the cottage was empty.

He knew at once that it was empty. He dared not let himself know it. With a doggedness which defied conviction, he dragged his feet, suddenly heavy, across the rough grass. The door on the veranda was open. Why not?—the door of an empty house.... He went in.

The moonlight showed the old familiar things, the chinks in the wall, the rickety table, the couch, the stairway! ... He stumbled to the stairway. He forced his leaden feet to mount it.... It was pitch dark there. The upper doors were shut.... "Her door—on the right." He said this to himself as if prompting a stupid little boy with a lesson ... In the darkness his hand felt for the door-knob ... but why open the door? ... There was no life behind it. He knew that.... There was no life anywhere in this horrible emptiness.... "Death, then." He muttered, as he flung back the door.

There was nothing there ... only moonlight ... nothing ... yes, something on the floor ... some-thing light and lacy, crushed into shapelessness ... Desire's hat.

He picked it up. The wires of its chiffon frame, broken and twisted, fell limp in his hand.

There was no other sign in the room. The bed was untouched. The Thing which had wrecked its insatiate rage upon the hat had not lingered. Spence went out slowly. There would be time for everything now—since time had ceased to matter. He laid the hat aside gently. There might be work for his hands to do.

With mechanical care he searched the cottage. No trace of disturbance met him anywhere until he reached the kitchen. Something had happened there Over-turned chairs and broken table—a door half off its hinge. Someone had fled from the house this way ... fled where?

There were so many places!

In his mind's eye Spence saw them ... the steep and slippery cliff, with shingle far below ... the clumps of dense bracken ... the deep, dark crevices where water splashed! ...

He went outside. It was not so bright now. There were clouds on the moon. One side of the clearing lay wholly in shadow. He waited and, as the light brightened, he saw the thing he sought—trampled bracken, a broken bush.... He followed the trail with a slow certitude of which ordinarily he would have been incapable.... It did not lead very far. The trees thinned abruptly. A rounded moss-covered rock rose up between him and the moon ... and on the rock, grotesque and darkly clear, a crouching figure—looking down....

A curious sound broke from Spence's throat. He stooped and sprang. But quick as he was, the figure on the rock was quicker. It slipped aside. Spence heard a guttural exclamation and caught a glimpse of a yellow face.

"Li Ho!"

The Chinaman pulled him firmly back from the edge of the moss-covered rock.

"All same Li Ho," he said. "You come click—but not too dam click."

"I know. Where is he?"

It was the one thing which held interest for Bern's Spence now.

Li Ho stepped gingerly to the edge of the rounded rock. In the clear light, Spence could see how the moss had been scraped from the margin.

"Him down there," said Li Ho. "Moon-devil push 'um. Plenty stlong devil!" Li Ho shrugged.

Spence's clenched hands relaxed.

"Dead?" he asked dully.

"Heap much dead," said Li Ho. "Oh, too much squash!" He made a gesture.

Benis was not quite sure what happened then. He remembers leaning against a tree. Presently he was aware of a horrible smell—the smell of some object which Li Ho held to his nostrils.

"Plenty big smell," said Li Ho. "Make 'urn sit up."

Benis sat up.

"Where is—" he began. But his throat closed upon the question. He could not ask.

"Missy in tent," said Li Ho stolidly. "Missy plenty tired. Sleep velly good."

Spence tried to take this in ... tent ... sleep ...

"Li Ho tell missy house no so-so," went on the China-man, pressing his evil-smelling salts closer to his victim's face. "Missy say 'all light'—sleep plenty well in tent; velly fine night."

Benis tried feebly to push the abomination away from his nose.

"Desire ... alive?" he whispered.

"Oh elite so. Velly much. Moon-devil velly smart but Li Ho much more clever. Missy she no savey—all light."

Spence began to laugh. It was dangerous laughter—or so at least Li Ho thought, for he promptly smothered it with his "velly big smell." The measure proved effective. The professor decided not to laugh. He held himself quiet until control came back and then stood up.

"I thought she was dead, Li Ho," he said.

In the half light the inscrutable face changed ever so little.

"Li Ho no let," said the Chinaman simply. "You better now, p'laps?" he went on. "We go catch honor-able Boss before missy wake." Spence nodded. He felt extraordinarily tired. But it seemed that tiredness did not matter, would never matter. The empty world had become warm and small again. Desire was safe.

Together he and Li Ho slid and scrambled down the mountain's face, by ways known only to Li Ho. And there, on a strip of beach left clean and wet by the receding tide, they found the dead man. Beside him, and twisted beneath, lay the green umbrella.

"How did it really happen, Li Ho?" asked Spence. Not that he expected any information.

"Moon-devil velly mad," said Li Ho. "Honorable Boss no watch step. Moon-devil push—too bad!"

"And the fight in the kitchen? And on the trail?"

Li Ho shook his head.

"No fight anywhere," he said blandly.

"And this long rip in your coat?"

"Too much old coat—catch 'um in bush," said Li Ho.

So when they lifted the body and it was found that the arm beneath the torn coat was useless, Spence said nothing. And somehow they managed to carry the dead man home.

It was dawn when they laid him down. Birds were already beginning to twitter in the trees. Desire would be waking soon. The world was going to begin all over presently. Spence laid his hand gently on the Chinaman's injured arm.

"You saved her, Li Ho," he said. "It is a big debt for one man to owe another."

The Chinaman said nothing. He was looking at the dead face—a curious lost look.

"He velly good man one time," said Li Ho. "All same before moon-devil catch 'um."

"You stayed with him a long time, Li Ho. You were a good friend."

Li Ho blinked rapidly, but made no reply.

"Will you come with us, Li Ho?" The inscrutable, oriental eyes looked for a moment into the frank eyes of the white man and then passed by them to the open door—to the dawn just turning gold above the sea. The uninjured hand rose and fell in an indescribable gesture.

"Li Ho go home now!"

The words seemed to flutter out like birds into some vast ocean of content.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

Desire was waking. She had slept without a dream and woke wonderingly to the shadows of dancing leaves upon the white canvas above her. It was a long time since she had slept in a tent—a lifetime. She felt very drowsy and stupid. The brooding sense of fatality which had made her return so dreamlike still numbed her senses. She had come back to the mountain, as she had known she must come. And, curiously enough, in returning she had freed herself. In coming back to what she had hated and feared she had faced a bogie. It would trouble her no more. For all that she had lost she had gained one thing, Freedom. But even freedom did not thrill her. She was too horribly tired.

Idly she let her thought drift over the details of her home-coming. Li Ho had been so surprised. His consternation at seeing her had been comic. But he had asked no questions, and had given her breakfast in hospitable haste. In the cottage nothing was altered. It was as if she had been away overnight. And against this changelessness she knew herself changed. She was outside of it now. It could never prison her again.

While she drank Li Ho's coffee, Dr. Farr had come in. He had been told, she supposed, of her return, for he showed no surprise at seeing her—had greeted her absently—and sat for a time without speaking, his long hands folded about the green umbrella. This, too, was familiar and added to the "yesterday" feeling. He had not changed. It was her attitude toward him which was different. The curious fear of him, which she had hidden under a mask of indifference, was no longer there to hide. Even the fact of his relationship had lost its sharp significance. She was done with the thing which had made it poignant. Parentage no longer mattered. So little mattered now.

She had spoken to him cheerfully, ignoring his mood, and he had replied irritably, like a bad-tempered child who resents some unnecessary claim upon its attention. But she did not observe him closely. Had she done so, she might have noticed a curious glazing of the eyes as they lifted to follow her—shining and depthless like blue steel.

"I do not expect to stay long, father," she told him. "Only until I find something to do. I am a woman now, you know, and must support myself."

She spoke as one might speak to a child, and he had nodded and mumbled: "Yes, yes ... a woman now ... certainly." Then he had begun to laugh. She had always hated this silent, shaking laugh of his. Even now it stirred something in her, something urgent and afraid. But she was too tired to be urged or frightened. She refused to listen.

In the afternoon she had sat out in the sun, not thinking, willing to be rested by the quiet and drugged by the scent of pine and sea. To her had come Sami, appearing out of nothing as by magic, his butter-colored face aglow with joy. Sami had almost broken up her weary calm. He was so glad, so warm, so alive, so little! But even while he snuggled against her side, her Self had drifted away. It would not feel or know. It was not ready yet for anything save rest.

Li Ho had made luncheon, Li Ho had brought tea. Otherwise Li Ho had left her alone. About one thing only had he been fussy. She must not sleep in her old room. It was not aired. It needed "heap scrub." He had arranged, he said, a little tent "all velly fine." Desire was passive. She did not care where she slept.

When bedtime had come, Li Ho had taken her to the tent. It was cozily hidden in the bush and, as he had promised, quite comfortable. But she thought his manner odd. "Are you nervous, Li Ho?" she asked with a smile.

The Chinaman blinked rapidly, disdaining reply. But in his turn asked a question—his first since her arrival. Had the honorable Professor Spence received an insignificant parcel? Desire replied vaguely that she did not know. What was in the parcel?

"Velly implotant plasel," said Li Ho gravely. "Honorable husband arrive plenty click when read um insides."

There had seemed no sense to this. But Desire did not argue. She did not even attend very carefully when Li Ho added certain explanations. He had found, it appeared, some papers which had belonged to her mother and had felt it his duty to send them on.

"Where did you find them, Li Ho?"

Instead of answering this, Li Ho, after a moment's hesitation, had produced from some recess of his old blue coat an envelope which he handled with an air of awed respect.

"Li Ho find more plasel too. Pletty soon put um back. Honorable Boss indulge in fit if missing."

"Which means that it belongs to father and that you have—borrowed it?" suggested she, delicately.

"No b'long him. B'long you," said Li Ho, thrusting the packet into her hand. And, as if fearful of being questioned further, he had taken the candle and departed.

"Leave me the candle, Li Ho," she had called to him. But he had not returned. And a candle is a small matter. She was used to undressing in the dusk. Almost at once she had fallen asleep.

Now in the morning, as she lay and watched the shadows of the leaves, she remembered that, though he had taken the candle, he had left the letter. It lay there on the strip of old carpet beside her cot. Desire withdrew her attention from the leaves and picked it up. With a little thrill she saw that Li Ho had been right. It was her own name which was written across the envelope ...

Her own name, faded yet clear on a wrinkled envelope yellowed at the edges. The seal of the envelope had been broken....

Sometime in her childhood Desire must have seen her mother's writing. Conscious memory of it was gone, but in the deeper recesses of her mind there must have lingered some recognition which quickened her heart at sight of it.

A letter from the dead? No wonder Li Ho had handled it with reverence. With trembling fingers the girl drew it from its violated covering.

"Little Desire"—the name lay like a caress—"if you read this it will be because I am not here to tell you. And, there is no one else. My great dread is the dread of leaving you. If I could only look into the future for one moment, and see you in it, safe and happy, nothing else would matter. But I am afraid. I have always been too much afraid. You are not like me. I try to remember that. You are like your grandfather. He was a brave man. His eyes were grey like yours. He died before you were born and he never knew that Harry was not really my husband. I did not know it either, then. You see, he had a wife in England. I suppose he thought it did not matter. But when he died, it did matter. There was no one then on whom either you or I had any claim. I should have been brave enough to go on by myself. But I was never brave.

"It was then that Dr. Farr, who had been kind through Harry's illness, asked me to marry him. He was a middle-aged man. He said he would take care of w both. You were just three months old.

"I know now that I made a terrible mistake. He is not kind. He is not good. I am terrified of him. But the fear which makes me brave against other fears is the thought of leaving you. I try to remember my father. If I had been like him I could have worked for you and we might have been happy. Perhaps my mother was timid. I don't remember her.