A woman fully armed with all the witchery of sex. A woman
any man might love--even Benis.

Desire did not struggle against her certainty. Her acceptance of it was
as sudden as it was complete. Huddling back in her chair, with the
tell-tale photo in her hands, she felt cold. Certainty is a chill
thing. We all seek certainty but, when we get it, we shiver. The proper
place for certainty is just ahead, that we may warm our blood in the
pursuit of it. Certainty stands at the end of things and human nature
shrinks from endings.

Only that morning, Desire had qualified the good of her present state
by the "if" of "if I only knew." And, now that she did know, the only
unqualified thing was her sense of desolation. The most disturbing of
her speculations had been as nothing to this relentless knowledge. Not
until she had found certainty did she realize how she had clung to hope.

She did not know that she was crying until a tear splashed hot upon her
hand. She did not hear the door open as Benis reentered the room, but
she sprang to her feet, alert and defensive, at the sound of his voice.

"Crying?" said Benis.

It was hardly a question. He had, in fact, seen the tear. But there was
nothing in his manner to indicate more than ordinary concern.

"Certainly not," said Desire.

"My mistake. But what is it you are hiding so carefully behind you?
Mayn't I see?"

Desire thought quickly. Her denial of tears had been, she knew, quite
useless. Besides, she had heard that note of dry patience in the
professor's voice before. It came when he wanted something and intended
to get it. And he wanted now to know the cause of her tears. Well, he
would never know it--never. It was the one impossible thing. Desire's
pride flamed in her, a white fire which would consume her utterly--if
he knew.

"It is a personal matter," she said. (This was merely to gain time.)

"It is personal to me also."

"I do not wish to show it to you."

"No. But--do not force me to insist."

These two wasted but few words upon each other. It was not necessary.
Desire took a quick step backward. And, as she did so, the desired
inspiration came. Directly behind her stood the table on which lay Aunt
Caroline's box of photographs. If she could, without turning,
substitute one of them for the tell-tale picture in her hand--

"You will hardly insist, I think." Her eyes were on him, cool and wary.
She took another step backward. He did not follow her. There wa