"Then love is only complete understanding?"

"Always thought it might be some trifle like that," murmured the drowsy one. "But don't ask me. How should I know? That is," rousing hastily, "I do know, of course. And it is. There's a squirrel eating your hat."

Desire changed the position of the hat. But the subject remained and she resumed it dreamily.

"Then in order that it might be quite complete, the understanding would have to be mutual. If only one loved, there would always be a lack."

"Not a doubt of it!" said Spence firmly.

"Well, then--don't you see?"

"See? See what? That squirrel's eating your hat again."

"Go away!" said Desire to the squirrel. And, when it had gone, "Don't you see?" she repeatedly gravely.

The professor always loved her gravity. And he had not seen. He was, in fact, almost asleep. "You tell me," he said, rushing upon destruction.

Then Desire said what she had made up her mind to say. He never knew exactly what it was because before she actually said the word "Mary,"

he was too sleepy, and afterwards he was too dazed.

Mary! The word went through him like an electric shock. It tingled to his criminal toes. It whirled through his cringing brain like a pinwheel suddenly lighted. It exploded like a bomb in the recesses of his false content.

Desire was talking about Mary! Talking about her in that frank and unembarra.s.sed way which he had always admired. But good heavens! didn't she realize that Mary was dead and buried? No. She evidently did not.

Far from it. When he was able to listen intelligently once more, Desire was saying:

"... and, to a man like you, philosophy should be such a help. I feel you will be far, far less unhappy if you do not shut yourself up with your memories. Do you suppose I have not noticed how nervous and worn out you have been since the night we came away? Why have you tried to hide it?"

"I haven't--"

"Yes you have. Please, please don't quibble. And hidden things are so dangerous. It isn't as if I would not understand. You ought to give me credit for a little knowledge of human nature. I knew perfectly well that when you married me--you would think of Mary. You could hardly help it."

The professor sat up. He was not at all sleepy now. Mary had "murdered sleep." But he was still dazed.

"Wait a moment." He raised a restraining hand. "Let me get this right.

You say you have noticed a certain lack of energy in my manner of late?"

"Anyone must have noticed it."

"But I explained it, didn't I?"

"Yes?" The slight smile on Desire's lips was sufficient comment on the explanation. The professor began to feel injured.

"Then I gather, further, that you do not accept the explanation?"

"Don't be cross! How could I? I have eyes. And my point is simply that there is no need for any concealment between us. You promised that we should be friends. Friends help friends when they are in trouble."

The professor rumpled his hair The pinwheel in his brain was slowing down. Already the marvelous something which accepts and adjusts the unexpected was hard at work restoring order. Mary was not dead. He had to reckon with Mary. Very well, let Mary look to her-self. Let her beware how she hara.s.sed a desperate man! Let her--but he was not pushed to extremes yet.

"I thought," he said slowly, "that we had tacitly agreed not to reopen this subject."

Desire looked surprised.

"And I still think that it would be better, much better to ignore it altogether."

"Oh, but it wouldn't," said Desire. "See how dreadfully dumpy you have been since Friday."

"I have not been dumpy. But supposing I have, there may be other reasons. What if I can honorably a.s.sure you that I have not been thinking of the past at all?"

"Then I should want to know what you have been thinking of."

"But supposing I were to go further and say that my thoughts are my own property?"

"That would be horridly rude, don't you think? And you are not at all a rude person. If you'll risk it, I will."

Her smile was insufferably secure.

"You are willing to risk a great deal," snapped Spence. "But if it's truth you want--"

He almost confessed then. The temptation to slay Mary with a few well chosen words almost overpowered him. But he looked at the expectant face beside him and faltered. Mary would not die alone. With her would die this newborn comradeship. And Desire's smile, though insufferable, was sweet. How would it feel to see that bright look change and pale to cold dislike? Already in imagination he shivered under the frozen anger of that frank glance.

He could not risk it!

Should he then, ignoring Mary, ascribe his symptoms to their true cause? By dragging out the horror of that moonlit night, he could account for any vagary of nerves. But that way of escape was equally impossible. He could not let that shadow fall across her path of new-found freedom. Nor would he, in any case, gain much by such postponement. The wretched professor began to realize that the devil is indeed the father of lies and that he who sups with him needs a long spoon.

Meanwhile, Desire was waiting.

He felt that he would like to shake her--sitting there with untroubled air and face like an inquiring sphinx--to shake her and kiss her and tell her that there wasn't any Mary and--he brought himself up with a start. What nonsense was this!

"Look here," he said irritably, "you are all wrong. You really are.

It's perfectly true I've been feeling groggy. But there doesn't have to be a reason for that, unfortunately. Old Bones warned me that I might expect all kinds of come-backs. But I'm almost right again now. Another day or two of this heavenly place and I shan't know that I have a nerve."

"Yes," critically. "You are better. I should say that the worst was over."

"I'm sure it is. Supposing we leave it at that."

Desire smiled her shadowy smile. "Very well. But I wanted you to know that I understand. It's so silly to go on pretending not to see, when one does see. And it's only natural that things should seem more poignant for a time. Only you will recover much more quickly if you adopt a sensible att.i.tude. I do not say, 'do not think of Mary,' I say 'think of her openly.'"

"How," said Spence, "does one think openly?"

"One talks."

"You wish me to talk of Mary?"

"It will be so good for you!" warmly.

They looked for a moment into each other's eyes. And Spence was conscious of a second shock. Was there, was there the faintest glint of something which was not all sympathy in those grey depths of hers?

Before his conscious mind had even formulated the question, his other mind had asked and answered it, and, with the lightning speed of the subconscious, had acted. The professor became aware of a complete change of outlook. His remorse and timidity left him. His brain worked clearly.