g to
business first. And then--well, then she wants to go shopping. So we
shall have to go where the good shops are.

What does she wish to buy? Oh, not much--just life, the assorted kind.

B. H. S.

CHAPTER X

It was the day before Friday. Friday, so very near, seemed already
palpably present in the surcharged air of the cottage. No one mentioned
it, but that made its nearness more potent. At his usual hour for
dictation, Professor Spence had come out upon the narrow veranda. But,
although his secretary was there, pencil in hand, he had not dictated.
Instead he had sat contemplating Friday so long that his secretary
tapped her foot in impatience.

"Are you really lazy?" she asked, "Or are you just pretending to be?"

"I am really lazy. All truly gifted people are. You know what Wilde
says, 'Real industry is simply the refuge of people who have nothing to
do.'"

The prompt, "Who is Wilde?" of the secretary did not disconcert him. He
had discovered that her ignorance was as unusual as her knowledge.

"Who is Wilde? Oh, just a little bit of English literature. Christian
name of Oscar. You'll come across him when you go shopping."

A faint pucker appeared between the secretary's eye-brows.

"You are coming shopping, aren't you?" asked Spence, faintly stressing
the verb.

"I--want to."

"That's settled then."

The pucker grew more pronounced. The secretary resigned all hope of
dictation and laid down her pencil.

"Tomorrow," reminded Spence gently, "is Friday."

"Yes, I know. And if I go, do I--we--go tomorrow?"

"It would be advisable."

"The time doesn't matter," mused Desire. "But--do you mind if I speak
quite plainly?"

"Not at all. You have hardened me to plain speaking."

"I have been thinking over what you told me. It does make a difference.
I see that I need not be afraid of--of what I was afraid of. It's as
if--as if we had both had the measles."

"You can take--" began Spence, but stopped him-self. It would never do
to remind her that one may take the measles twice.

"Of course you won't believe it, not for a long time anyway," she went
on in the tone of an indulgent grand-mother, "but love is only an
episode. You are fortunate to be well over it."

Spence sighed. He hadn't intended to sigh. It just happened.
Fortunately it was the correct thing.

"I don't want to distress you," kindly, "but we were rather vague the
other night. I understood the main fact, but that is about all