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