Whatever it was, it had not been there yesterday. Yesterday morning
she had felt no desire to sit in the shallows and throw shells at
crabs. Yesterday morning her mind had been full of that happy
inconsequence which feels no need of thought. Today was different.
Mentally she shook herself with some irritation. "What is the matter
with you?" she asked. But the self she addressed seemed oddly
reluctant. "Come now," said Desire, hitting an especially big crab,
"out with it! There's no use pretending that you don't know." Thus
adjured, the self offered one single and sulky word. The word was
"Mary." "Oh, nonsense!" said Desire hastily.
But there it was. She had forced the answer and had to make the best
of it. Her memory trailed back. Once started, it had small
difficulty in tracking her dissatisfaction to its real beginning.
Everything, it reminded her, had been perfect until she and Benis
had sat upon the hill in the sunset and talked about Mary. Something
had happened then. Like a certain ancestress she had coveted the
fruit of knowledge and knowledge had been given her. Not at once--
Benis had at first been distinctly reluctant--but by gentle
persistence she had won through his cool reserve. Abruptly and
without visible reason, his attitude had changed. He had said in
that drawling voice of his, "You wish me to talk about Mary?" And
then, suddenly, he had talked.
He had told her several things. The color of Mary's hair, for
instance.
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