"Any name will do," she said
coldly.
The professor gathered himself together. "Her name," he said
triumphantly, "Was--is Mary."
He had done well for himself this time! His questioner was plainly
satisfied with the name Mary. Perhaps lying gets easier as you go
on. He hoped so.
"My mother's name was Mary," said Desire. "It is a lovely name."
Spence felt very proud of himself. Not only had he produced a lovely
name in the space of three seconds and a half, but he had also
provided a not-to-be-missed opportunity of changing the subject.
"I suppose you do not remember your mother," he said tentatively.
"Oh yes, I do, although I was quite small when she died. Father says
I fancy some of the things I remember. Perhaps I do. I always dream
very vividly. And fact and dream are easily confused in a child's
mind. My most distinct memories are detached, like pictures, with-
out any before or after to explain them. There is one, for instance,
about waking up in the woods at night, wrapped in my mother's shawl
and seeing her face, all frightened and white, with the moon, like a
great, silver eye, shining through the trees. But I can't imagine
why my mother would be hiding in the woods at night."
"Why hiding?"
"There is a sense of hiding that comes with the memory--without
anything to account for it But, although I do not remember connected
incidents very well, I remember her--the feeling of having her with
me. And the terrible emptiness afterwards.
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